


You did not just do that?!

by Illidria



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BROT3, Gen, LLF Comment Project, M/M, Mild Language, Multi, Relationships may develop, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-01-21 08:11:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 62,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12453216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Illidria/pseuds/Illidria
Summary: How would they fare, if the world was a different one? Not necessarily more peaceful, but at least not riddled with alchemists seeking world domination? Well, maybe a few... Modern-Day-AU, focusing on the Briggs Bro's.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InkuisitivSkins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkuisitivSkins/gifts).



> So, I start another project, simply because I can :P
> 
> Blame Inkuisitivskins for sending me prompts again, it's all your fault!^^
> 
> This is an AU, relying a bit on reader-participation. I will only work with prompts for this one and take your wishes and suggestions into account. We are starting out with the prompt "You're an asshole!" that was send over under the condition of BrOT3-Briggs Bears, alonside two others. So there will be two more chapters in the same universe, because liberties. I'd say let's see how it goes and tell me what you think about it!
> 
> Honey, thank you so much for sending me in this prompts and sorry for turning them on their head again! One day I'll do it properly, I promise! <3

“Is he serious?!”

Miles had wondered when she would finally arrive, having been in one of her frenzies when he’d left their apartment. And her fingers were indeed still stained with paint, though she’d exchanged sweatpants and baggy shirt for a pair of leggings, a fitted red pullover and her trusty leather jacket. Followed her gaze, one eye hidden from view by a mass of blonde hair as always, and looked at their roommate, singing on the stage.

Buccaneers rendition of “Hit me baby one more time” was really something else.

“It’s his second Britney song tonight, so yes.”

Took a sip of his beer calmly, used to the big guy duking it out on karaoke night at their usual place.

It was a questionable establishment if he was honest, at least he could fully understand if anybody thought that. Christmas bar was all too well known in Central, situated in an alleyway, hidden from view. Many young girls working here, staff changing at a pace not fast, but often enough to notice as a regular. The Madame herself was big, imposing, like something out of a noir flick from days past.

Armstrong threw herself over the backrest, sitting down next to him. With a casual wave of her hand greeting the Madame that was just stepping behind the bar again, apparently having been in the back. Got a beer without a fuss and set to watching Buccaneer, singing his lungs out.

“He has done the Backstreet Boy’s yet?”

“Wanted to wait for you.”

She made a face.

“Kill ‘em with kindness, huh?”

Took a sip of her beer, while he snorted some of it out through his nose at her remark.

Looking up again, white foam still sticking to his face, less than dignified, he saw the most beautiful person he’d ever laid eyes on.

The first thing he noticed was the kind smile. Lips curled at the corners, a row of white teeth showing. The face creased a bit, lines speaking of someone who often laughed. Eyes behind glasses, red like his own, set over a sharp nose. An angular face, longer than wide, white hair rather short. Skin a tad darker than his even, not a single blemish anywhere he could see. Tall, yet not as tall as the man with him, his build lean. Cloth pants and an oddly patterned shirt, as well as a loose jacket completed the picture.

Locked eyes with the man, his heart beating out of his chest, instantly realising that his face was covered in beer.

He turned beet red and looked away quickly.

Armstrong was turning instantly, never having shown restraint in such matters.

“Uuuhhh, pretty!”

It felt like she spoke loud enough for the whole bar to hear, turning back to him, grinning.

“The one looking all stern or the one with the glasses?”

Groaned at her words, hiding his face in his hands.

“I bet it’s the one with the glasses. You dig glasses!”

Resurfaced from his own hands with renewed resolve, trying to sit straight at least now, wiping the last of the beer away.

“Think he’s seen me look so embarrassing?”

“Pretty sure that’s why he’s still smiling and constantly looking at the back of your head. That, or he’s fascinated with the pineapple look you’re rocking.”

Choked almost on his own spit at that, forcing himself not to turn around.

“Should I test the waters? Need to talk to the Madame anyways.”

“Test which waters?”

Buccaneer stepped up to their table, sitting down with a curious look. Miles tried to die on the spot, failing miserably.

“Miles is trying to show me what love at first sight looks like.”

The big guy looked around the bar, eyes finding the right person with uncanny precision.

“Oh, the one with the glasses or the one looking at you all stern? Wait, it’s always the one with the glasses! You dig glasses!”

Looking at him again, sounding all excited.

“Well, go and say hello! What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Not getting a word out and blushing like a fool?”

The jab not directed at him, but at Buccaneer. The man could not speak to women at all and only managed Armstrong, because she was like a sister to him. When she came fresh out of the shower, all relaxed or put on something different for a night out with her sisters? No chance.

“Thanks a lot Armstrong, at least they’re not running from me!”

Rather running to her, Miles thought, the blonde’s reaction not coming, simply because she’d left the table again. Crossing the bar, leaning herself on the counter and talking to one of the Madame’s girls, who quickly went to fetch the lady. Turning with years of practiced nonchalance, winging for them since the earliest days, with the clear intention to engage the two newcomers in friendly conversation.

Managed to do so with the bespectacled man, jutting out her thumb in Miles direction, probably brutally honest with the guy. It worked, so they didn’t question it, but it was uncomfortable all the same. A mix of guilt and shame, because you let another do what you should, too scared to go yourself. When the man turned, Miles scrambled to look away, Buccaneer laughing.

And when the big guy signalled him to turn again, the object of his desire was gone from view. The only thing left Armstrong, staring up at the big man the other had come in with. He was saying something through gritted teeth, though did not look away.

And of all things possible, there was the touch of a blush spreading across her cheeks.

“Hey, are you Miles?”

He turned when he heard his name, looking directly into the face of the young man from before. Up close he looked even more perfect.

Stuttering, he gave an answer.

* * *

 

“So, these two are your roommates?”

He nodded, laughing a bit.

“Yep, I must have been seventeen when I came to the apartment, after I’d heard that there was a free room in it. First only him, showing me around completely laid back. And then her coming in, all angry and strict.”

“They pulled a god-cop-bad-cop on you?”

“The best I’d ever seen. But it clicked as soon as I understood that and after swearing on a Harry Potter novel that I’ll follow the apartment-rules, they let me stay. It’s been a couple of years since.”

The bar got more crowded as the hours progressed, yet he barely noticed that. The man had introduced himself as Akeem, a gesture of his hand indicating that there was no official last name. Got it right out of the way that he was an Ishvalan refugee, had fled with his younger brother when war came too close to their home. The region they’d have been named after when coming of age was barren now and thus their surname had vanished.

Miles himself telling him that he was of mixed heritage, the Ishvalan parts of it the most prominent though, look-wise. Talked about their culture a bit, harmless things, before moving onto the territory of family and friends. Genocide made for a bad first topic to talk about, so they left it for later.

“And those two are…?”

“God no!”

Laughed again, surprised at how easy Akeem was to talk to, how much fun it was.

“I mean, I get where you’re coming from, they’re acting like an old couple, but no. Know each other since he’s been ten and she twelve. He actually thought her to be a boy for a year or so.”

His laugh was something out of a dream and he had to make a conscious effort not to swoon.

“Thing is, Buccaneer can’t talk to women, you see? So, when they went swimming and he realized, he couldn’t even say something!”

While Akeem was laughing, Miles felt prickling in his neck. Wondered if it maybe was Armstrong or Buccaneer glaring daggers at him and turned. The younger brother now sat at the bar, looking over to him with disdain in his eyes. Armstrong was still sitting there too, chatting with the Madam, probably talking business with her.

The man sitting opposite of him noticed.

“Oh, don’t mind him, he’s always looking at men I talk to like that. It’s not that he’s got a problem with my sexuality, looked at women that way too, before he knew.”

Miles looking into red eyes, taking in this explanation, every question, every doubt, evaporating. Akeem meanwhile held up his hands in a defensive gesture, blushing.

“Sorry, this tumbled out now. I did not want to make you uncomfortable or imply anything. But he already scared so many people away before I could probably talk to them, I wanted to warn you.”

Found courage inside of him, the daring, stupid kind, that ended flirts before they could start.

“You wouldn’t be wrong with implying things, though.”

Took a swig of his beer, trying to make it seem like an off-hand comment. Revelling in the blush that spread on Akeem’s face, in the smile pulling the corners of his mouth further up, revealing a second row of teeth.

Grinned back foolishly, the only thing he could hear besides the blood rushing through his ears, the sound of Buccaneer starting to abuse “As long as you love me”, loudly and off-key.

They picked up their talking after he hit a note so wrongly, that Armstrong started to curse, the bar erupting into laughter. Miles at least feeling a bit fuzzy, knowing that this could led to something, that the most beautiful man in the world was not out of reach.

“And what do you and your brother do for a living?”

It was hard to ignore the way Buccaneer sang, but eyes meeting the others made it easier.

“My brother, he’s touchy with his sacred name so he goes by Scar by the way, works as a help on a building site at the moment. He’s a bit undecided what he wants to become I guess and as we’re still rather new to Central City, he hadn’t had the time to look around much.”

“So, money is a bit tight?”

Which was a rhetorical question, really, because money was always tight in Central, rent and cost of living high. Without Armstrong every now and then selling one of her paintings for a good price, they wouldn’t live in their rather spacious apartment anymore.

“You could say that. We live near the river though, a bit too far south to call it in one of the better neighbourhoods, but my brother tries his hardest to look scary enough, so we’re usually left alone.”

“He really is the brooding type, right?”

Both looking at the mentioned man, still sitting at the bar, not looking at them at the moment, but talking to Armstrong. Neither looked like they particularly enjoyed it, but at least Armstrong seemed to be feeling entertained enough to not just walk away.

“You’ve got no idea. Cannot blame him though, not after what he’s been through. He survived serious injury and a lot of trauma. And now we’re here, in a flat, not on the run anymore.”

“I guess the transition is hard?”

“Well, we lived near West City for a while. More racism there, people following us if we went anywhere at night. And here nobody even looks at you, suddenly you’re just a normal person on the street. To shake this feeling of unease is really hard for him.”

“So you look out for him?”

“He’s my younger brother, I love him.”

Tried to imagine for a moment, how it had to feel to lose your home, your country, your family, everything. The war in Ishval had affected him horribly and he’d been hundreds of miles away. But even though he’d experienced racism and prejudice, he never feared for his live.

Akeem cared for others a lot he noted in his head, but little for himself.

“And you?”

“Huh?”

A bewildered gaze meeting him, interpreting the question wrong and right at the same time. Miles wanted to learn how he had felt during all of this. But now he wanted to know more about the future of this man.

“What do you do?”

“Well, I study alchemy and alkahestry, though I still have a lot to learn. Work at the Anthropological Museum part-time too, to make ends meet. I hope that I can one day obtain a license to legally practice alkahestry on patients.”

“So, you like to help people?”

The things he studied had become rare, called unpractical by many. The time it took to properly learn this craft was long and tedious, many lacking the endurance. Yet, with little preparation alkahestry was vastly quicker and more powerful than a doctor’s treatment.

So, Akeem was beautiful and smart. He could already hear Buccaneer and Armstrong tease him.

“I really do. I was just a teenager when we fled the war and couldn’t do much. Did not want to grab a weapon either, because how would the bloodshed ever stop if I did, you understand? So, healing was the way to go, with little preparation and quickly too, if possible.”

He rolled up the sleeves of his jacket a little, tattoos peeking out. Arrays. They were vastly different from those Armstrong’s brother used, but a few details were almost the same.

“You won’t need to draw a transmutation-circle with those?”

Had not noticed his hands sneaking forward, finger softly touching the black-inked skin, tracing the edge. Did not notice the blush on Akeem’s cheeks.

“Not for what I intend to do, no.”

Did not role his sleeves back down though and only a couple of hours later, Buccaneer smashed and Armstrong tired, he stopped touching the man’s skin. Exchanged numbers with him and went on his way, smiling widely.

Buccaneer grabbed by his sleeve, so he wouldn’t run of because he thought some street lamp was cute and Armstrong walking next to him sluggishly, painting the whole night through finally taking its toll.

Could hardly wait to get home, just so he could text Akeem.

* * *

 

The doorbell rang early, for a Sunday at least, miraculously all of them up already.

“I’ll go.”

Buccaneer got up, only dressed in a pair of slacks, hair in a towel on top of his head. He’d been the last to shower, food ready before the blow dryer could be turned on by him. Or rather not turned on because Armstrong told him to come eat now, or she’d eat all of his pancakes too.

Walked back to their eat-in kitchen with Akeem’s brother in tow. Miles addressed him, remembering their conversation, calling him by his preferred nickname.

“Scar, what can I do for you?”

The man met with the sight of Miles sitting at the table, showered clean and fully clothed, a topless Buccaneer and Armstrong, only clad in a long shirt she’d stolen from one of them, chewing on a piece of pancake. Feet red, as well as a large portion of the hallway to her room, colour having spilled not even an hour ago. The flat looking quite frankly like a murder scene.

Did not let himself be deterred by that, only looking at Miles, forcing his gaze away from the blonde next to him.

“I want you to leave my brother alone!”

Buccaneer and Armstrong groaned in unison.

“And you keep out of this!”

He pointed angrily at them now and suddenly Miles understood what Akeem had meant with unease and it never slipping. He was protective of his older brother, to such an extent that even happiness was a threat to their bond now.

“Does Akeem know you’re here?”

“Using his sacred name so easily! Who do you think you are?!”

Buccaneer was muttering under his breath, something about angry bean and heart attack.

Miles did not answer, but let the man rage.

“Thinking your slick with your looks, half-breed mutt? You’ve got no idea of the hell he went through, no idea what it’ll do to him when you leave again in a week!”

Armstrong was chewing some more, calmly, taking advantage of the situation and stealing one of Buccaneers pancakes.

“You won’t talk to him, won’t call him and won’t write him! If I see you coming near him, you’ll turn up face down in the river, I promise you that! I will make sure that you stay away from him, one way or the other!”

The blonde stopped chewing, swallowed and looked at the heaving man.

“You leave, now!”

Armstrong took charge and silently he was glad for it. Tone commanding, the man flinching at it. The slight blonde even managed to look imposing, perched on her stool, dressed in only a big shirt and paint sticking to her skin. Looking at him, gaze not wavering. She was scary to most, but like this she was utterly terrifying.

Watched as Scar tried to stare her down for several long moments, before she only uttered five more words.

“Don’t make me repeat myself!”

He turned, walking out and slamming the door behind him.

After a few more moments of everybody just breathing, Miles suddenly slammed his fist to the table.

A curse escaping him that had the others flinch.

“Hell, Miles!”

Buccaneer was looking at him, eyes searching. Armstrong looking sympathetic.

“What do I do now?!”

“Tell Akeem what just happened and ask if you should or shouldn’t leave him alone.”

Armstrong, chewing on her pancake again like she’d not just stared an angry man out of their door, like she’d not just gave a quick answer.

“That sounds way too easy.”

Buccaneer sounding wistful, clapping him on the shoulder.

“A little bit rehearsed too, if I’m honest.”

Upon Bucky’s words, the blonde shrugged.

“Talked with him yesterday and let’s just say that I had a gut-feeling this would happen.”

Miles sighed, burrowing his face in his hands for a few moments. They’d gotten along wonderfully yesterday, Akeem and him. He’d felt his heart pound and his breath catch and he’d been so sure that Akeem felt the same. Got up with a start, searching for his mobile. He’d write him and be done with it, sitting back down with the little black thing in hand, furiously typing.

“Right, I almost forgot you talked with the guy.”

Buccaneer spoke, fork searching his plate, looking for a missing pancake.

He participated without looking up, eyes locked onto the screen.

“She blushed when first introduced to him.”

Buccaneer pointed and snapped his fingers at him, remembering it now too seemingly.

Meanwhile he sent the message, hoping for the best.

“Right! What was that blush for yesterday anyways?”

“None of your business!”

She was scary when she pointed her fork at you, both of them would admit that. But they’d outgrown those fears by now. She’d not kill you, not if you provided pancakes.

“You think he’s sexy!”

“You like them tall!”

They sounded like they had a little too much fun with that and looked like it, too.

“I told you to fucking stop it! You are mean!”

“Aren’t you the one always telling us to “just go get them” when we like someone? Turning hypocrite now or what? You like him, do something about it!”

“He just screamed at Miles?!”

The big guy let out a snort.

“Wait and see, I bet he’ll apologize for that. He’s a hothead and you are too, so, perfect match. Go get him!”

“Gods Buccaneer, I just can’t, okay!”

And she looked honestly and openly distraught in a way Miles had rarely seen.

“Why?!”

“He’s considering priesthood!”

Silence for a long while, implications becoming clear to them. Clergy believing in Ishvala was to practice celibacy, public knowledge because it was the butt of many piggish jokes. But this was Olivier they were talking about. She’d not barrel into such a decision, however much she felt attracted to the person. Miles wondering for a second, about what they’d talked yesterday.

Buccaneer let out a breath.

“Well, that’s too bad. But better you know that now and keep your emotional distance.”

She scoffed, pulling one of her feet up onto the stool. The topic seemed to be resolved for now, but the needling did not stop.

“Yeah Bucky, you tell me about emotional distance! You can’t even say hello, that’s what I call distance!”

“Armstrong, you’re an asshole!”

“Will you two shut it!”

He maybe spoke louder than intended. Maybe a bit harsher too. Wondered just when their conversation about the topic at hand had derailed into insulting the other.

Fascinatingly, they did.

His phone beeped, and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to look.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear InkuisitivSkins, here is Prompt number two! :D
> 
> For the searchers: "Stop texting me weird stuff so late at night.”
> 
> I've read all your kind comments and have taken everything into consideration. So there's more hungry Armstrong, more goofy Buccaneer and more Olivier/Scar, those I get the feeling that those two will be slow-burn-hell^^
> 
> I hope you enjoy and dont forget to drop a line :D

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Stop texting me weird stuff so late at night.”

Looked down on her, sitting there all huddled. Answered her angry huff with a question.

“Ok, why the hell are you sitting in a dumpster?!”

She made shushing noises, thankfully sitting only in between waste-paper and nothing worse.

“Because the god-damn police turned up, that’s why! Now would you please help me out?!”

Was used to Armstrong acting all angry, even though it had been her that texted him to come. Or rather send him a riddle.

“And because of that you wrote me: Rip me up, I’m riding in the hamster?!”

“Fucking autocorrect, that’s why!”

He sighed, grinning. Maybe the beeping of his phone pulled him from sleep, but there was no use dwelling on that. Knew that she’d planned to get out tonight and leave a gift in the city’s main street. Should have stayed up all along.

Lend her a hand, so she could pull herself up, before handing him her backpack. The cans inside of it rattled.

“You are lucky that I knew where you wanted to go, or I wouldn’t have found you. Got done?”

She dusted herself off, pulling her coat tighter around her. It was goddamn freezing and she’d sat there for who knows how long.

“Was packing up when the blue-coats came along. A few quick turns and they were out of sight, but I wanted to wait and make sure.”

“So, you didn’t get out of the dumpster on your own?”

Walking beneath a street-lamp, he saw her face turn red.

“I would’ve! But I’m not leaving my stuff behind. That way they find you!”

Any jab at her height was ticking her off, making him smile. At the same time though, he was quite sure that she’d been just frozen stiff enough to not be able to climb out there. Plan forming in his head.

“Can we go see it or is it too dangerous?”

“If we maybe make a subtle bee-line for it. Let’s walk a bit up and then back down the main street. That would make us come down from the opposite direction I ran to.”

Grinned when her idea perfectly correlated with his plan.

“We’ll stop at The Seven Sands then. You need to get something hot to drink. And if we sit there for a while, it’ll throw ‘em off your track more.”

She harrumphed next to him, reason clear: Scar was working in The Seven Sands Café. Not for long, but two weeks by now, helping in the bakery at night. His shift always started at three in the morning Akeem had said, which would mean that he was working for an hour already.

Had not dared to interfere with Miles and his brother anymore, not after he’d shown up by them, not after Armstrong had met him somewhere afterwards and offered him her two cents on the matter. Not after Akeem had told him what he thought about his meddling. The man was at their place often now, though his brother reclused, even after they’d made it clear that he was welcome too.

The Seven Sands was run by Ishvalan refugees. Or rather had started like this, over thirty or so years ago. Now it was a place where people of such heritage found a place to work, to integrate back into society again. Scar coming here had been Armstrong’s doing, he was pretty sure of that, though he had no proof. Akeem had said that one of the owners had reached out to them at the house of prayer.

She was a regular and greeted as such.

“Blessed morning Ma’am. Worked longer today?”

The elder behind the counter greeted her, hair shaved, a white, trimmed beard on his face. He smiled, his eyes darting to one corner of the café for only the blink of a second, silently explaining the remark.

Two officers of the military police were sitting there, only sparing them a short glance.

“A lot to do, yes. Can I get the usual?”

The man smiled and nodded, noting his order too. Saw the slip of paper given to none other than Akeem’s brother, white hair shorn, green apron over white clothes. Noticed that the man did not seem to look at the paper when preparing her drink.

They sat down after being handed the pottery mugs, saw her setting her backpack down extremely carefully. If the contents rattled and the blue-coats heard, she’d have to open it up. Would get into a lot of trouble.

“Don’t you have classes too, tomorrow?”

Started the subject, silence suspicious.

“Only at midday. A two-hour lecture and then I got a life drawing class. So, I can fall into bed for a bit.”

“Still slow-pacing the economy-degree?”

Saw her crunch-up her nose while taking a sip, the waft of spices from her coffee strong.

“He said he’ll leave me alone as long as I study something useful.”

“And quiet clearly underestimated your ability to make a bachelor last five years and counting.”

Saw her snicker, watched out of the corner of his eye as the two officers got up and paid.

“Just think of it, he wants me to make a masters too.”

The little bell on the door ringing, falling shut. The breath many were holding escaping.

“You making your father angry aside, these were the officers?!”

“Yep. Just glad that I had the balaclava on that you gave me for my birthday last year. I’m pretty sure they would’ve recognised me otherwise.”

A smile playing along her full lips, relaxing in her seat, mug in hand. She’d turned a more normal colour again, teeth not shattering anymore.

“What do you say, we drink up and get our asses home? I’ve got work at seven.”

She nodded, taking another long sip.

He’d refused military service, was doing community service instead, at the moment posted at a retirement home. It was rather nice, the people kind. It was hard work of course, with great responsibility, but he could study in evening courses, working on his degree. People laughed when they heard that he was close to becoming a preschool teacher now.

He did not care, neither his friends. The old ladies at The North Star were even admiring him for it.

Sometimes wished that those weren’t the only women he could talk to.

“All done!”

She got up, collecting his empty mug too and went over to the counter to pay. The boss peeking into her backpack when she took out her money, seeing the empty cans. Smiling at her, handing her the change and a small paper bag.

“Breakfast.”

Thanked him, blushing. Waved goodbye and stepped outside with him.

Went down the main-street towards their apartment, though they still had plenty of way to cover. And when a street branched off to the side, he saw what she’d put on the formerly empty wall of a building.

It was rather simple what she’d done this time. Two tally’s, bones instead of lines, each one having a header. On the left eighty-seven bones, beneath the words “Amestrian soldiers killed by Ishvalans”. On the right, a pile. Falling off the side of the building, uncountable. Big bones, small bones, every kind. Above it read “Ishvalan civilians killed by amestrian soldiers”. On the bottom stood “Honour all“, the third word hidden by the tumble of bones, message clear.

The art-critics would tear it apart in the papers come morning, no doubt.

Military officers were standing in front of it, pedestrians were stopping to look, though the traffic this late was little. He saw a few people snapping pictures.

“Tagged it?”

“Just got my sign on it when they rounded the corner.”

Walked past with her, not stopping, only looking like a mildly interested pedestrian would. Only when they sat in the tram, he spoke again.

“How long do you think until they paint it over?”

She shrugged, head resting against the window-pane, exhaustion showing. Her non-existent sleep-cycle too.

“I guess two days at the most, though they have a surprise in store for them if they try to.”

Grinned evilly, the one that gave people a heart-attack. Answered when he looked questioningly at her.

“It’s the new mix I was working on. It dries super slowly and seeps into it, when fresh paint is rolled over. As soon as the fresh paint is dry, you’ll see it again.”

Laughed, loudly.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’re the devil!”

“Phew, the pay they offered was lousy!”

* * *

 

She’d overslept.

This happened sometimes, though she only let it with her economy-classes. Hated them with a passion, how easy it all was, how smug the others in the course acted. Had taken her sweet time with getting ready too, putting on a touch of make-up, searching for a hair-band for her class after the one she was currently running late for and putting on a comfy set of clothes, consisting of a pair of thermo-leggings and an oversized sweater. The temperatures had dropped and when she stepped outside, art-supplies strapped to her back, she decided she needed a jacket, going back up again.

Still arriving at the lecture hall before the prof did, though at least was the last pupil to slip in. Glad that the only seat free was one in the back.

Doodled, while the others seemed to be listening intently.

She had no friends in this course. Was too slow for that, stayed too long, never sharing this class with anyone for more than a year. Only took it because of her father, who’d promised to not meddle with her life as long as she studied something useful alongside her “hobby”. Sighed inwardly.

He’d be annoying her to no end, could make her life difficult if he wanted to. Droned on how he only wanted the best for her, that those not keeping up, wasting their time with nonsense, would be left behind.

Took all the money he send her and gave it away.

The man did not want to understand that her paintings were paying rent. Granted, she did not release them under her name, only tagged them, but still. Had a pretty clever system of distribution, so her identity was safe during the whole process. Used several tags, several personas, the one which she distributed critical stuff with the most dangerous to her. Just like last night she often sprayed it on buildings, this act alone illegal, wouldn’t be the first critical person to be put in jail or under house arrest. Luckily, she had friends.

None of which studied economy.

Looked down at her paper, not having paid attention to neither her own doodling, nor the prof talking. Sighed inwardly when she saw what she’d drawn.

Akeem’s brother, Scar. The only thing that happened when she doodled at the moment, whichever material she used. Maybe it was the forbidden fruit thing, or that she saw him almost daily at the café, she didn’t know. Had talked on the night of their first meeting, but it hadn’t felt much different to when she usually talked to people. Yes, she’d thought him to be attractive, but she thought that about almost every girl passing her on the street and so hadn’t put too much stock in it.

Wanted to dislike him when he strolled into their apartment the morning after, for the sheer shit he talked. Even managed to do so two days later, by chance meeting him in a supermarket. Berated him a little more when he looked all angrily at her and stomped away without giving him time to reply, just to have him hand her down a package of paper towels five minutes later, when he’d apparently seen that she couldn’t reach them. Had apologized, however quietly.

She’d stared at him, at a loss for words and had felt the heat rush to her cheeks.

And since then, she was at a loss for what to do. She did not want to make advances, did not want to make him uncomfortable. Priesthood was a big thing, no decision you made lightly. He’d probably thought it through well, mind set on it. Tried to keep her distance, like Bucky had said.

It still hurt.

Like a cavity in her heart. She wasn’t used to this, the feeling of longing. Caught herself lingering at the counter of the café when he was there, always kept him in the corner of her vision when she was plotting with his boss again. Had silently been glad when he did not come along when Akeem went over to them.

Did not notice that the lecture was over, until everybody got up around her. Packed up, grabbed her stuff and left for the art-building.

Caught talk of last night’s work, smiling to herself.

It was the best way to find out who thought critically of the government and who didn’t. The tone you could easily hear, the responses mixed, whichever class the people attended. Miles and Bucky knew her tag, the boss of the Seven Sands too. Akeem had figured it out, after peeking into her room to get her for lunch. This one she’d done after a sketch from one of the Sands workers, the people there often covering for her just as they’d done in the early morning.

Shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts, to mentally prepare herself for the life-model class.

It wouldn’t be a full nude life drawing today, but something about upper body anatomy. Had learned to adapt her style in class, the people there the most dangerous to be around when you went around selling your art anonymously. Were good at identifying styles and brushstrokes, many able to tell artists apart through that.

Walked leisurely, had enough time until she had to be there, only noticing that someone grabbed her arm and pulled her to the side, into a tight walkway between two buildings, when it was too late.

“You think yourself to be really smart, sticking your nose into other people’s business, huh?!”

She struggled against his grip, winced at the pain. Had wanted to kick, had seen his face and held back.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, let me go!”

“That picture was done by you, wasn’t it? The graffiti in the main street?”

Felt herself being pushed against the wall, felt her anger rise. Tried to stay calm, to resolve this without resorting to violence, too. It would only make things more difficult, for him, his brother and Miles.

“And if it was? What will you do? What is your problem with it?”

“All of you, meddling with stuff you don’t understand! You’ve got no own problems you can care about? Why you got to stick your nose in our business?!”

Tried to push his arm away, grip tight, his face close to hers. Felt panic rise, reminded of when something like that had happened before, with different intent, by a different person at a party. Miles wasn’t here to safe her ass this time.

Talked, hoped to buy herself some time to think, to fight out of this stupor she was in. Tried not to drown in the wave of panic.

“I do this with the help of your co-workers Scar! They know it, they plan it with me. They got the ideas and I’ve got the supplies! Now please let me go!”

“Why can’t you all just leave us alone?!”

This wasn’t about her she understood, yet it did not help her. Did not want to hurt him, felt tears sting her eyes. Her words sounded like a plea, yet she didn’t care.

“Please! Let me go! You’re hurting me!”

With a start he did, eyes going wide.

Stepped back, looked at her, leaned against the wall, rubbing her arm, catching her breath. Felt like her legs were made of jelly, truly shocked by his reaction. And he seemed to be too, wide-eyed and breathing hard. Mouth moving, no sound escaping him. Locked eyes with her for a second, expression pained before he vanished.

Stayed there for a while, catching her breath, willing the tears to not fall. Picked up her stuff when her breathing normalized again and went over to where her class would be. Waited with the others for the prof, did not chat with anybody, only listened.

Did not remember a word that was said, only mulling over his in her head.

When the man finally came to them, telling them that the class was cancelled and would be caught up on later because the model did not show up, she took a while to understand his words.

Walked home, not stopping for a coffee at the café, nor at the bookstore. Was the first and only one home at this time, put her stuff away and went for a shower.

Pretended under the spray of water, that there were no tears.

* * *

 

He was late.

Well, they were. He’d went over to Akeem after his job at the market, his boyfriends brother planned to be out for the evening. And he had been when he arrived, ringing the doorbell and hearing the adorable sound of a man falling over his own research notes. The door opening at last, a quick kiss exchanged and then the chaos examined.

Had helped with picking up strewn notes, able to put many back in order. Did not understand a thing written on them, though. Sat down on the couch and watched the man, white strands of hair a bit too long, falling into his eyes. Watched as he brushed them to the side absentmindedly, laughed at that.

Red eyes meeting his at that. Saw that Akeem wanted to say something and couldn’t. Felt the heat rush to his cheeks.

Before either of them could move, could finally bask in the togetherness that they’d both shovelled this day free for, the door opened.

Akeem’s brother seemed to be in a pitiful state.

Looked pale, drenched, the rain having started an hour ago. Pain in his eyes.

_“Suhail, what happened?!”_

Watched as they effortlessly switched to speaking in Ishvalan, him only understanding parts of it.

_“I’ve made a mistake brother!”_

_“What kind?!”_

_“I got angry brother, I hurt someone!”_

_“How bad brother? Please don’t tell me someone lies in a ditch bleeding! And whom?”_

They were damn fast, and he only got from it that something happened. But Scar’s face spoke of remorse for something, so he’d probably done something not all too great, especially when he took into consideration the worried face of Akeem.

_“Her, his blonde friend!”_

Saw every last bit of composure slip from his lover’s face.

_“What in Ishvalas name have you done to her brother?”_

_“I just wanted to talk to her, you have to believe me. She drew this thing on the street you like so much, not an Ishvalan man. My anger got the better of me!”_

_“If you’d just talked, you’d not be so upset!”_

And he’d never seen Scar like that either. He wasn’t angry, not even a little bit. Seeming more desperate than anything, at a loss for what to do. Almost scared even.

_“I grabbed her arm and hurt her. She did not even push me away, seemed just so very shocked. When I realized, I left. Ran and came here! I did never want to hurt her!”_

And of all things possible, this big and rather burly man sat down on the couch, head in his hands.

Miles had not nearly understood everything, the two simply talking too fast for that. But he’d gotten the gist, that Scar had talked to someone and gotten angry, hurt the person physically and was distraught by that. Speaking up before thinking twice about it.

“Ok, listen up, I know you don’t like me.”

Scar shrugged.

“You’re still here, so….”

Which was as close to “I think you and my brother are good together” as he could get for now. Shook his head, to get it clear from this unexpected revelation. The man looking at him sideways, waiting for what he had to say.

“Ok, whatever. On topic there’s just one thing I can say: Whatever you did, own up to it!”

The man scoffed.

“You make it sound easy. What if sh… what if the person will not talk to me again?!”

“Because it is. Never try and you’ll never find out!”

Akeem was pacing, unsure. Rubbing his chin, setting his glasses straight, thinking hard.

“Seems to be the only solution to me too, brother. Talk to the person and apologize. What happens after, is not yours to decide anyways.”

Switching back to amestrian without an effort, words true in his opinion.

“I… I need to think.”

Miles quite sure that the man had to, so very distraught at the moment and not at all strong. A strange sight if he was honest, after he’d only gotten to know Scar as an angry and brooding person, dead-set on protecting his brother and little else. But it was good to know that there was more than this to him.

“And a warm shower, you are soaked! Clean up, change your clothes, take a nap. We’ll eat out later and you’re coming with us!”

Akeem could sound like an older brother after all, Miles smirking at the man’s tone of voice. It brooked no contradiction and even better was the sight of Scar getting up, following the instructions.

After a few hours they’d been on their way, visiting the supermarket first, before setting out to his apartment. Scar growing more agitated the closer they got.

Were berated by Buccaneer when they finally came in through the door, late as they were.

“Miles finally! You remember it’s your turn to cook tonight, right?”

Apologising quickly and getting the food into the kitchen, explaining what happened, why they were late, and that Scar would eat with them today, all the while getting ready to cook. Looking around the room, Akeem coming to help him. Scar standing around awkwardly, having been here only once before. Buccaneer sitting on the couch and the faint sound of music picked up by his ears.

“Armstrong in her room?”

“Was already here when I came in after class. Something about the life-model not having shown up. Weird mood she was in…”

“Weird?”

His brow furrowing at that. Armstrong could be angry, or happy, or wilful and a lot in between. Weird wasn’t one of the usual terms.

“Almost teary, though when she asks, I never said that! Would not tell me, just went into her room, shut the door and turned the music up. It started to smell of oil-paints not five minutes later.”

Made a face at that, not sure what to think.

It wasn’t rare that she closed the door behind her and cranked the volume of the music up, it was even rather normal. And if she’d just been angry at the class getting cancelled, she’d simply have voiced that. Oil-paint-smell was something else though. Her best stuff she painted with it, deep pictures with a lot of emotion. It often meant that the day she had to endure beforehand was particularly awful.

“She’s not asked for food?”

“Not once.”

Stopped what he was doing at that, until Akeem softly leaned into him.

“That’s bad?”

Sighed, distraught, stirring again.

“Very bad. Olivier without food is, well…”

“Horrible!”

Buccaneer finished the sentence for him, saw Scar listening to their conversation intently.

“Why? Does she get moody, or…?”

Made a face and heard Buccaneer snort a little before speaking.

“Well, moody is a way to put it. Cranky would fit too, but it’s usually worse than that when you feed her too late. Ever seen Gremlins?”

Akeem shook his head.

“You should! You don’t feed ‘em and they turn to monsters basically. It’s the same with her.”

“Yeah, but you said she didn’t even ask for food!”

Miles butting in, because this was an important detail. Speaking some more, when Scar in particular looked at him puzzled. Felt rather than saw, how Akeem turned to look at his brother, wondering as to why.

“When Armstrong doesn’t want to eat, somethings happened. She’s hurt, or somebody died or any other horrible thing you can think of.”

“Shall I go get her?”

Buccaneer looking at him, question and worry in his eyes. He nodded.

“We’re as good as ready. Scar, would you please set the table?”

Both man started to move, Akeem walking over to help his brother, exchanging whispered words. Buccaneer walking down the hallway, first the sound of his knocking being heard, then the music getting louder. The big man coming down the hallways again, her padding behind him, swiping her hands on a rug, while he set down the pot on the table.

She came in barefoot, wearing shorts and a shirt, hair up in a bun. Specks of colour everywhere, on hands, arms, feet and face. Face a cool mask, nothing showing. And the mother of all bruises on her upper arm.

Big, wide and deeply blue, looking like it hurt with every move. He stared at it, Buccaneer too, as well as Akeem and Scar. And when she met the latter’s eyes, looking a bit astounded at first and then taken aback, he felt anger coil in his gut.

And when he saw the looks they exchanged, saw the guilt in his eyes and this weird shine in hers, when he remembered what Scar said about today, all the pieces came together.

Later he could not remember having stepped up to the man, taller and bigger than him, scarier even. Did not remember pulling back his arm, did not remember her scream of no, nor Buccaneers curse.

Only landed back in reality when Scar staggered backwards, hand pressed to his face, blood flowing over his chin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me at the tumble, where you can drop your wished easily: http://illidria.tumblr.com/


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, prompt number three from the dear InkuisitivSkins.
> 
> For the searchers: “ Stop being such a baby.”
> 
> This is the last prompt I have for this story for now, equally as much fun as the others :D
> 
> Enjoy and leave a line if you did, please :P

“Why are we running?”

“Buccaneer!”

Did not understand anything anymore, just following the pull of her hands through the winding stair-case, turning sharply and walking down a long corridor. Had barely been on his feet again, when she’d grabbed him and started to run. He tried to stem the flow of blood with his free hand, could feel the futile effort running down his arm.

“I’m dripping blood everywhere!”

She spoke hurriedly, only glancing back at him for a moment, before her eyes looked at the numbers pinned next to some doors again.

“Better than ending up as one big stain I’d think.”

Seemed to have found what she was looking for, pressing a button with force, the ringing of a doorbell loud in the otherwise empty hallway.

The door was opened, and he was pulled inside the flat without a hitch.

“Aye, Armstrong, hello! Nice to see you, would you like to come in?!”

A man standing in the doorway they’d just rushed through, door still in hand, looking at her with one raised eyebrow.

“Close the door you fool!”

Which he surprisingly did.

“May I ask what’s going on?”

She sat him down on a sofa, pulling a Kleenex out of a box on the table and handing it to him. He pushed it in front of his noise, which was burning with pain, looking at the man in front of him. He was tall, hair black and face rather pleasant, dressed like a man that was ready to go out for the night. Was sure to have seen him before, though couldn’t remember where.

“He did something dumb, Miles figured it out and socked him in the face. Was out of the door with him before Buccaneer could catch on.”

To which the man only replied after walking to the hallway again, the sound of a door being locked easy to hear. The sight of lights being turned off. Coming back with a solemn face, looking her up and down.

“Let me guess, he left you with that thing on your arm?”

Noticed that she was shivering slightly, face directly in front of his, examining his nose. Saw the man rummage around in a drawer, pulling out a pair of white gloves while he asked.

“Don’t even think about it Roy-Boy!”

Without even sparing the man a glance, fingers softly following the curve of his nose.

“You got a first-aid kit?”

Saw Roy-Boy put the gloves on top of the furniture and step to the side, the sound of rummaging heard from somewhere deeper in the flat. Came back when she was swiping blood away from his face almost gently, watched her blue eyes while they surveyed the now uncovered damage.

Roy-Boy stepped up behind her, opening the white box and handing her a piece of gauze.

“I think you won’t get around the hospital with this one. Looks broken.”

Felt her fingers press into his face, wincing.

“Yep, it is.”

Sighed, one hand going to her pockets, realising she had none.

“Shit! Everything is upstairs, wallet and phone! You don’t have my brothers number by chance?”

“Should be around somewhere here.”

The guy walking off again, returning with a mobile and a washcloth. Got the latter handed with a sympathetic smile.

“For you, so you can swipe the blood from your chin and arm.”

Nodded his thanks, watched as the blonde paced while talking into the small device, meanwhile cleaning himself up.

“So, how come that you hurt Armstrong?!”

Felt what lurked behind these words, not fooled by the easy smile.

“Anger got the better of me and she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Wanted to apologize to her, but her roommate figured out what happened before I could.”

Wondered what there was to laugh about.

“Just be glad then, that she did not hit you first, wouldn’t have gotten up again if she did. Or Buccaneer! Brought you here because believe me, the guy will want to tear you limb for limb at the moment!”

Watched her pace and talk, not looking happy. Saw the bruise, heat rushing to his cheeks. Ishvala preached forgiveness and while he hadn’t found the words to apologize for what he’d done, she’d already helped him anyways by the looks of it. Felt shame rise and the pressure in his heart deepen.

Saw the goosebumps on legs and arms rise when she hung up, breathing to herself for a short moment. Asked the man with a voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you maybe have some clothes for her? She seems to be cold.”

She turned to him, not having heard seemingly, but Roy-Boy still getting up with a nod, looking a tad bit surprised.

“My brother will pick us up in ten and drive us to the hospital.”

“I’m not insured.”

Heard her scoff, rubbing her arms up and down.

“That won’t be a problem. If the guys find us here, that would be bad!”

Watched her watch him, eyes so very blue, the bun bobbing on top of her head.

“Why are you helping me?”

Saw her pupils dilate at that, seemingly in honest confusion.

“Why shouldn’t I? Do you think I’d want them to scrap your dead body from the apartment? I like the paint-job as it is, thank you very much!”

“But I hurt you!”

Did not realise that he’d gotten loud until she looked at him again, a resemblance of anger in her eyes.

“And you think you’re the first? I’m not blind, you were sorry the second you realised what you were doing!”

“Why didn’t you defend yourself? Akeem said that Miles told him that you can!”

She turned away for a moment, looking almost like she got caught.

“None of your business, let’s leave it at that! Get the rest of the blood off your face, I want to put some gauze on the cut before we leave!”

Did as she commanded, while Roy-Boy, he really needed to ask for a name, came back into the room again.

“The socks are from me as well as the pullover, but the pants are from my … an acquaintance of mine. They should fit you. I’ve got some boots lying around in the hallway too, I’ll go find them while you get dressed.”

Armstrong looking a bit put out for a moment, clothes laden into her arms, bewilderment showing when she spoke.

“Thank you?!”

“No worries!”

Making a face at his nonchalance, but putting the clothes on without thinking too long about it. Shrugged into the pants with a bit of difficulty, having gotten rid of the shorts without a hitch, him looking to the side at that, blushing. Saw her fight with the button, saw a glimpse of flat stomach and a ripple of muscle. Watched her hair bun snag in the hem of the pullover, becoming unravelled and static when she finally got it free, slipping the elastic over her wrist. Saw her wince when she went to pull the socks over blue-tinged feet and rub at her arm afterwards.

His heart feeling like it hurt again, guilt overtaking.

“I feel so dumb now.”

“For what exactly?”

She laced up the boots the other man had handed to her after a bit of searching, a few sizes too big but the best he could offer. Left the room again, saying he needed to call someone.

“What I’ve done, the things I said. Sometimes I forget that not everybody is at fault for what happened. That there are people that really want to help.”

Looked away and back to her again, felt like her eyes were searching his soul.

“You really want me to forgive you?”

Nodded, almost desperately.

“Get some help. Ask your boss at the café, or the people in your local house of prayer. They know who to send you too. I bet what you’ve gone through was horrible, but you got to give yourself a chance.”

Finished up and kneeled in front of him again, picking up some gauze and plaster-tape.

“You’ve got a cut there, right beside your nose. I’ll put some gauze on it, to keep the dirt out, but you’ll have to get stitched. And the nose needs to be set, too.”

Felt the heat rush to his cheeks at the proximity, her face closer to his than before. Could see the facetted blue in her iris, every single hair of her eyebrows. Could smell her, a hint of vanilla, the smell of paints and weirdly enough, cinnamon.

He flinched a little when she accidently touched his broken nose, the bruise already forming.

“Oh, come on, stop being such a baby!”

Her grin a flicker in front of him, his stomach doing a backflip at that. Her hands falling to her sides when she was done, leaning to the side to assess her handy work.

There was a speck of golden colour under her left eye and absentmindedly he put his thumb against it to wipe it away. Saw her still at that, eyes locking. Felt his heart miss a beat.

The doorbell rang, and they broke apart.

* * *

 

He was the first one to notice the sound of steps on the stairs.

It was well past midnight by now, he’d given up on his frantic chase and had walked back to the apartment, meeting up with Miles and Akeem on his way back, who’d been hot on his heels. Anger not gone, just put away for later. Listened to the two fight and make up and fight again, on the matter of a younger brothers smashed face. His opinion nobody had wanted to hear and so they had continued to fight in his room and the kitchen, switching back and forth.

Already stood in the small hallway leading to their door when she knocked, opening it immediately.

"Where is he?!"

The other two drawn by his voice, peeking around the corner.

Heard her sigh at his question, not angry, just tired. He looked at her face when Scar did not magically appear behind her, taking in the rings under her eyes, the mouth that was set into a straight line and the hair, tousled and unbound. Felt guilty immediately. They’d compared their knowledge of the day in her absence, not once taking note of how exhausting it had to have been for her.

"Let me come in first."

Stood there, stubbornly, not stepping back to make room. Expected her to snap at him, not to be berated in a quiet voice.

"Come on Bucky, don’t make this harder than it already is."

It did the trick, had him step back. She came in, closed the door behind her, leaning against it. Looked ready to keel over from sheer exhaustion and yet managed to stay upright.

"Where is he?"

Not him asking for once, but Akeem, real worry in his voice.

"He's at your flat. Alex picke..."

Tried to push past her at those words, anger rising again. Nobody hurt any of his friends, not like that, especially not her. She was the closest thing to a family he had, was the only constant in his life for more than ten years by now. He'd not see someone hurt her and let them walk away unpunished.

Miles and Akeem said something he didn’t hear, pulling at the back of his shirt to little avail. He tried to pry Olivier away from the door carefully, the woman in question sighing deeply again.

And then she used it, the greatest weapon at her disposal. The one thing to end all fights or squabbles, probably the only solution if one wanted to establish world-peace.

She hugged him.

Threw her arms around him as far as they would go, hugging his middle, head not even coming up to his shoulders. Resting against his chest, breathing calmly.

"It's alright William, I worked it out."

No anger, nothing. He hugged her back, his own fleeing his body, holding her tight.

"I'm sorry, I was just scared that you..."

"I know, I'm fine."

They let go of the other, his anger gone, Akeem looking at them in amazement. Stepped back into the living room, him steering her towards the eat-in kitchen and onto a chair.

"Have you eaten yet?"

Watched her shake her head no and went into the kitchen to heat her up some leftovers without a hitch. Miles and Akeem closed in meanwhile, the former squeezing her hand once, tightly, before she scoffed, and he let go. She the first one able to form a coherent sentence.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Miles?!"

The man in question stumbling over his own words, turning red with embarrassment. His boyfriends hand finding the fumbling appendages and holding them tight, smiling encouragingly.

"I... I just understood what happened and... and I thought about what happened to you a few months ago and I just.... I just blew a fuse I guess."

Looked and sounded sorry, more so than he'd done the whole evening he’d listened to him talk with Akeem. Miles not done with the overwhelming feeling of guilt, speaking on.

"The second you were out of the door, I knew that I'd done the wrong thing. Should've let you do it yourself. Are you alright?"

With which he seemed to mean not only her, but Scar too. She answered him quickly, Akeem seeming eager for her words, too.

“Got him to the hospital with Alex’ help. He got his nose set and a couple of stitches to the skin next to it. Has a nice bruise too, but he’ll be alright. We dropped him off at your flat.”

Looking at Akeem at that, who seemed to breathe out his worry, smiling at her.

“Thanks for taking care of him, even after he…”

“It’s all right Akeem, it was the least I could do.”

Smiled back at the man, the sight pleasant as it was one of the honest. Then turned to look at him and Miles, letting her anger show and pulling up her strict voice.

“And what were you two thinking?! We talked about this before, what happens when I say that I want to tackle a problem alone?”

Both of them squirming, Akeem’s amazed gaze not helping much.

“We let you tackle it alone.”

Sounded remorseful, Miles even more than him. She had boundaries, thinks she did not want them to meddle with. They sometimes did anyway, their worry getting the better of them. He knew that she always felt like they invaded her privacy then, something she held dear.

Her tone of voice becoming a hundred times friendlier when she turned to Scar’s brother again.

“Between you and Miles everything is alright? I’d hate if there were trouble, just because Scar and I have some problems.”

The young man looked at Miles for a moment, adoration in his eyes, willingness to forgive. And she apparently saw it too, smiling.

“Well, now that this is settled…”

Reached for her mobile on the counter, while Miles and Akeem were kissing in front of her, so passionately that he felt the need to cough. Watched her type with a concentrated face, the little golden device not exactly her friend.

“Who are you texting, Alex? It was awfully nice of him to drive you around.”

Saw her shake her head, screen soon black again and the phone back on the stone.

“You’ll see.”

Miles and Akeem resurfacing for air, just when it knocked on the door. Olivier jumping from her seat in tune with the beeping of the microwave.

“I’ll go.”

He did not pay it any mind, thought that maybe Alex had come up, or whomever she stole the clothes from. Only looked around again, when Akeem stopped his talk about having to get ready to heed home and look after his little brother rather abruptly.

Because Scar was standing in the damn living-room.

Before he could make a move, Olivier’s hand was already on his chest, a pointed look making him shiver and return to the microwave. Miles meanwhile stepping up to the man.

“Scar, brother, I need to apologize, I….”

Said man interrupting him with his own apology.

“No, I have to apologize. You sat with me when I vented to my brother and were nothing but helpful and I didn’t tell you what really…”

Which was talked over by Miles again.

“But I hit you and you’re hurt now and will maybe even have a scar because of that and…”

Akeem leaned on the counter next to them, while they watched the tableau play out in front of them, the two Ishvalans constantly apologising, talking over the other and finally becoming real friends.

“You need to tell me your secret to keep them in line so effortlessly.”

To which Buccaneer could only laugh, heating up more food for their guests.

“Fat chance. We are those kept in line and have no idea how she does it.”

At which she looked oddly proud.

* * *

 

“Have I told you today that I love you?”

Looked at his boyfriend, white hair in a ponytail, oddly stiff like it always was. Armstrong called it the pineapple and did right by that. Grabbed his hand in his, holding it tight. Looking into red eyes, so much like his own and yet so much wilder.

“Only seventeen times.”

“So you’re counting?”

Marvelled at how soft Miles lips were, how coarse his sideburns. They broke their kiss after a while, both flinching when Buccaneer started to seriously abuse “My Anaconda don’t”.

“He really does this regularly?”

Miles sighed, humour in his eyes.

“Way too often.”

Laughed, felt Miles strong arm wind around his shoulders and watched the big guy duke it out. They’d resolved all differences, were now a group of four, sometimes even five, if Scar was in the mood. Glanced at the clock on his phone, resting his head on Miles shoulder.

“What kind of job does your brother have today?”

“Catches up on the one he missed when the whole debacle happened a week back. The prof gave him another chance, life-modelling for an art-class or something. It’s a lesson on torso anatomy and the guy apparently had seen Scar at the house of prayer, during monk training.”

Miles trying his hardest to stifle a giggle at his explanation, failing miserably and the beer he just took a swig of running down his chin a little. He sat up straight, looking at the man with furrowed brows.

“What?!”

Grinned himself when Miles could finally speak again, laughter accentuating every word.”

“You know that Armstrong has a class today, right?”

He nodded, while Miles needed to take a break because of the laughter. Tried to calm himself with deep breaths, failing miserably, but still speaking on.

“It’s a life-model class about torso-…”

Full laughter breaking out now, him joining in. The mental image alone, of his brother sitting down on a stool, eyes sweeping over the class and recognising her, was almost too much. But the thought how much fun she’d have with this, that he would never life it down…

“What are you two laughing about?!”

Stopped, when they realized that they’d thought about the devil so intensively that it appeared.

Armstrong stared down at them, seemingly angry, but really looking all kinds of flustered.

Miles was the first one to calm again, wiping at his eyes.

“Oh, nothing. How was class?”

The woman stomping off to the bar at that, looking ready to murder his boyfriend. The man in question only slightly laughing.

“Oh damn, she really got the hots for him. She’s trying not to, but it’s so easy to see.”

He turned solemn, looking Miles in the eye.

“What?!”

Which was met with an equally honest answer, all laughter forgotten for the moment.

“Bucky and I think that she maybe has a crush on him, or whatever that devil has instead of those. Though she said that he knows of his plans and keeps her distance because of that.

“Sometimes I think that Scar is taken with her too, but then he assures me a moment later that he wants nothing more than to become a priest.”

“You say it like he’s not going to go through with it?”

Felt his heart tighten pleasantly when he noticed yet again, hot easy it was to talk to Miles, whatever the topic.

“Not because he doesn’t want to, he’s dead-set on it since he’s fifteen. But I think it’s simply because he never allowed himself to think about anything else, fears that he’d lose his plan if he did. And the elders at the house of prayers seem to think along the same lines.”

“How do you know?”

“One of them asked me once, since when my brother is thinking about becoming a priest. And as he only started to want that a year after we left home due to the war…”

“They wonder if he really wants it, or if he only wants the stability that comes with it?”

“Exactly. Though honestly, I don’t know what will happen when the elders announce who they’ll let continue on the path, should he not be amongst those. I’m really scared of that.”

Felt Miles inch closer, taking one of his hands in his, the other palming the side of his face, eyes locking onto the others. Miles voice was sure and honest, the man truly believing in the words he said.

“Don’t worry my love, we’ll figure it out together when the time comes. All will be alright.”

Was kissed and felt calmer instantly.

A second later Buccaneer let himself fall to his left, Armstrong next to the man.

“At it again, in public?”

Armstrong snickering, telling Miles with only one long look to shut up and not ask about class again. Which led him to be sure that her class and his brothers job had correlated.

“The lady that tried to talk to you Bucky, tell me, did you get a word out?”

Miles sounding mean, Buccaneer sputtering an angry response and Armstrong laughing.

A few minutes later Scar joined their group, blushing when locking eyes with Olivier for a moment, his reaction confirming their theories. Sitting down next to Miles, their little corner booth in the Madams bar now almost utterly full.

The subject had changed during this time, though not too much.

“He’s a master at flirting!”

Aimed at his own boyfriend, in a manner that made it clear to mean that he wasn’t. Which was utter nonsense of course.

“Do you want to put your mouth on my mouth?! Is not, and I repeat, NOT, a good pickup line!”

Buccaneer demanding with his tone of voice that everybody understood that, no matter what. Probably not remembering at the moment, that no pick-up line ever left his mouth at all.

“I’d say it’s all about deliverance!”

“Armstrong, you can’t be serious?”

The big guy looking like she betrayed him with her opinion, though her face showing that she had indeed a lot of faith in it.

“No really, you can say anything, as long as you say it right!”

Pointing at them with the neck of her beer-bottle, looking them in the eye.

“Prove it! The blonde guy over there, with the cigarette! We’ll see if it works.”

His brother of all people saying that. The silence held only for a second before she stood up, looking him in the eye, one he couldn’t interpret. Made a mental note to ask Miles about it.

She did not saunter over to the guy, but still managed to have his eyes on her before she even was halfway there, quite a feat after only two metres. Spoke in a warm voice, drawing out the words, a smile on her lips they only got to see rarely.

“Hey handsome, do you want to put your mouth on my mouth?”

Winked at him, the guy turning beet red. _He_ felt turned on a little and she certainly wasn’t his type.

Came back over to them when the guy was showing them what a speechless fish looked like, plopping down on her seat and taking a swig of her beer.

“See, deliverance!”

Putting on a triumphant smile, apparently not even noticing that the man who dared her, seemed to be the most affected by her little show.

“Okay, you win that one. But how about a karaoke-contest?”

His boyfriend, and he could not say it enough, his beautiful boyfriend mock-telling the man off.

“What do you want to abuse now Bucky? Poor Lady Gaga?”

“I was thinking about “Wannabe”, from the Spice Girls.”

The whole table erupting into laughter at that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my dears, that was the last prompt of the batch, though I think this story has got a little bit more life in it. Please drop me a line concerning what you'd like to see, prompt me on tumblr and add ModernAU if you want it to play in this universe or straight out message me. Thank you for sticking with me and tell me what you think :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay Dylan,
> 
> here's the first of your prompts :D  
> Though I have to admit, I'm not entirely happy with how it all turned out... oh well!  
> I hope you like it anyways and if you got any ideas for this one, let me know :D

“And here we are, we turned the heating up as far as it would go, so you won’t be an ice block at the end of this.”

The Professor smiled kindly at him, a brown-haired, ponytailed and lanky man, who’d at first weirded him out greatly when chatting him up after a Thursdays monk-training. He’d been sure that the man had gotten the wrong idea first, had rather brusquely dismissed him and been met with laughter at that. The offer to model for one of the mans art-classes at Central Cities University came unexpectedly, but the pay offered was good and according to the man nothing would be done that would make him uncomfortable.

He’d accepted, a well-kept body a praise to Ishvalas creation just as much as hours of prayer, and fluked the first appointment thoroughly after his run in with Armstrong.

Heeded her advice, talked with the elders first about what to do and then called the Professor and asked for forgiveness. He was not only awarded that, but also a second chance and not a week after, there was a new appointment set for him to model. It would earn him good money, with which he planned to buy his brother a present for the fast-breaking celebration that followed the winters-fast.

Folding his shirt, he tried to steer his thoughts towards his brother, away from the blonde, failing miserably. She’d started to invade his mind after their first meeting, the day when Akeem met Miles. He’d let slip a short prayer, something you uttered when met with beauty only Ishvala granted and been glad to learn that she did not understand too much of the language. And he found that his thoughts turned to her more and more often, escalating at the same pace as their meetings did.

For the first time in years he had to fight certain urges down again, felt that with every meeting it got harder to do so. Was glad to keep his distance if he was honest, especially after he’d lost his temper. Talked with the elders at the house of prayer about his worries, his temper and got himself some help and advice. “Think about it as a trial send from Ishvala” they’d said, and he tried to heed their words.

A knock pulled him out of his thoughts.

“Ready?”

Stepped to the side, let himself be led into the room the class would be held in and was met with a wall of warmth while stepping inside. They’d cranked up the heating as far as it would go, which he was glad for, though not dreading the cold, not keen on sitting in it for hours on end either. The Professor stepping past him, leading him to a little stool on an elevated base of concrete, introducing him and addressing the class.

Scar sat down all the while, got comfortable and used to the gazes trained on him. Let his eyes sweep over the group of people, about fifteen, all sitting in front of empty easels. And almost fell when his eyes met with a familiar pair of blues.

Swore under his breath in Ishvalan, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks.

And while he expected her to billow something, a curse, or start to laugh, anything, she defied those expectations. Instead she sat there, stock-still while the others were already moving around her, looking at him. Hair in a high ponytail, both eyes wide, a blush creeping onto her cheeks.

They were both pulled out of their locked gazes when the Professor softly nudged her shoulder, asking her if she didn’t need a canvas to work on. Smiling in a way Scar couldn’t interpret the man shook his head, wandering through class, while Armstrong got the biggest canvas she could find and hid behind it.

He sat up straight again, felt self-conscious for a while, before the professionalism in everybody’s gazes became clear to him. And so, he sat there, trying not to look in the direction of Armstrong, though sometimes seeing her blonde head pop out behind her easel. Watched the Professor, walking through the rows, looking at what his pupils created. Saw nods and smiles and furrowed brows from the man. A smirk, when he looked at what Armstrong did, which had him squirm in his seat.

And after a good while of gradually feeling more comfortable in his skin, he noticed how many of the students were shifting in the heat of the room. It was the end of November; Central City was cold and all of them were dressed in accordance to that. Saw some take off pullovers, saw one of the girls kick off her fur boots. And then Armstrong got up, gaze changed to one of resolve, meeting his shortly, cold and steely.

Watched, heat rising in his cheeks at the same speed as her arms, as she pulled the royal-blue sweater over her head. The tank top was blue too, cut normally, but still he was confronted with her curvy figure. Their gaze held for a moment longer before she sat down again, going back to her head only pocking out occasionally.

He ignored the stifled laughter of the Professor, tried to concentrate and draw into himself, to detach him from the thoughts she evoked in him. It wasn’t the impurity that shook him so much, he knew how to battle these feelings after all. Rather he sometimes found himself fantasising about a different live, where he could talk with her freely, make her laugh, spend time with her. Her well-hidden kindness drew him somehow, letting his self-control falter. He’d never felt like this before and did not know what to make of it.

Her head poking out again, her gaze now more concentration than tease, he managed to detach himself even less.

Yet, he held out, sat through the hours with something akin to feigned ease. Watched when the Professor dismissed the class, all of them by now looking somewhat dishevelled, packing up and leaving the room. Tried not to look at a certain blonde pulling the sweater over her head again, pretended not to see her pack up labelled containers with paints and clean and put away a wide array of brushes. Acted like he did not see the wild storm of emotions in her eyes when she left the room, mirroring his own.

“Want to take a look?”

The Professor was speaking to him, was handing him his shirt and then started to walk around the room, taking in the mostly finished works of his disciples.

“It’s always quite interesting to see their works when a live-model is involved, because it tells you a lot about how they see you. You’ll see that none of them drew and painted you the same, that each and every one focused on something else.”

Walked the rows with the man, met with a barrage of names he in some cases heard before, through Armstrong or Buccaneer or Miles. Saw himself many times, from many angles and thought that he leaned something knew about how others perceived him.

He’d chosen his nickname because of his most-apparent features, first and foremost the x-shaped scar on his forehead. It was the most notable, pale and coarse, but he had others, most of his torso showing old burns and deep ridges. Was used to living with these marks, testament to the horrors he’d seen, yet it was a different experience to learn how others saw them.

A young man named Adam seemed to think of them as nothing but ugly and disfiguring, his own face barely recognisable to him. The scars seemed larger than they were, more severe, as was the scowl on his face. The man next to him spoke, sighing.

“Adam’s handling of the materials he uses is extraordinary, but he always focused on the unusual a tad bit too much for my liking. You notice how he overexaggerated the features of your face and body that are a result of external damage?”

Scar nodded, knowing that the burn-marks on his abdomen were not as big as depicted there, though the sight made him still feel self-conscious about them again. Tried to fight these feelings down, not helped by several of the other portraits of him littered around the room.

Did he look that brooding, this mean, this ugly? It wasn’t something he’d often thought about, as there’d always been more important things to do, to think about. And vanity wasn’t his forte either, but if he wanted to be a priest of Ishvala, he had to seem approachable at least, like someone you wanted to confide in. If he wanted her to…

A gasp from the lanky Professor pulling him out of his thoughts yet again and let him wander past several depictions of his face, just to come to a halt in front of one that felt entirely different.

The scars on his face and chest were not palliated in the slightest, the colour of his skin not whitewashed like it was in many of the other paintings he’d seen today. It felt a bit like looking in a mirror, though there was something different about it, something that took him a while to put his finger on.

With a start he understood that he was beautiful.

This was his face, his body, caught perfectly in colour and tone, his eyes seeming like a living thing, the red of them standing out and feeling like they were following you. The texture of his scars looked like it felt when he touched them, and he had to make a conscious effort to not touch the fresh paint just to make sure. His white wisps of hair, few after it’s been shorn a few weeks ago, seemed soft and lofty. He wasn’t brooding in this painting, did not come off as mean or unapproachable, just as deep in thought.

Which was true, as he’d been just that during the largest part of the past few hours.

“…good girl, really good. But you forgot to cover up your tracks this time. If certain other people see this, they’ll…”

Made a questioning sound when he registered that the Professor had muttered something, though he’d not understood a word. The man coughed slightly and then turned towards him.

“It’s gratifying to know that someone sees you like that, isn’t it? Not to mention the use of colour and brush!”

Heard the man laugh, but did not look, transfixed on his newfound beauty.

“But I have to ask, what’s that with you and Armstrong? I mean, I know that she’s got more than just a good eye and lots of talent, but to draw you like this!”

Scar catching on finally, understanding that this was hers, that she’d created such an image of him.

Wondering why.

Pulled out of his thoughts completely now, by a sound from the teacher and a little, labelled container held in front of his face. There had to be paint inside it, red and gooey and the man looked almost pained when handing it over to him.

“Seems like she forgot to pack that up. Would love to analyse this, really. She makes all the paints by herself and you can see that they’re of extraordinary quality, rich with pigment. But it would be wrong and as you seem to know her… Would you hand it over for me?”

Took the little container, nodding, slipping it into his pocket.

After a bit more small-talk he went on his merry way, still deep in thought, set to meet his brother at Christmas bar. Had caught on quickly, that the other two Ishvalans there thought of the whole situation as hilarious, that they were probably wondering what had transpired between Armstrong and him. Seemed to be sure that they’d sassed each other instead of blushed and flushed and been embarrassed all around. Let them think what they wanted, instead keener on talking to the blond.

He challenged her during their discussion about how to flirt, on a whim really, the topic in itself having been of interest to him last with fourteen and not for long either. Was unable to admit that he was affected by her little show, wasn’t even sure why he’d challenged her in the first place. And one emotion had answered to his discomfort, the only one that always seemed to be ready: Anger.

When they left the bar well past midnight, Akeem and Miles walking hand in hand, Buccaneer singing in front of them, he fixed Armstrong with an angry stare. Her answer coming quick, tone snide.

“What’s pissing you off now?!”

At which he deflated again, his ire seemingly leaving through his ear. For a moment he spared a thankful thought for those at his house of prayer, who’d talked with him about his issues much, showed him ways to get along with himself better. He wanted to know still, but understood now that there was another way to find out more about the weird feelings coiling in his gut whenever he was near her.

“You really think that tone is everything when flirting?”

His sudden calm catching her off-guard seemingly, because her eyes went almost as wide as they did a few hours ago, when she noticed just whom she had to paint. Her eyes narrowing quickly, guard being drawn up.

“I proved it even, didn’t I?”

And he did not know what took over him then, why he suddenly felt the need to test her theory himself. Maybe to shake her up a little? To understand himself better? It was no matter when he leaned forward, trapping her between him and the wall of a house, faces close, noses almost touching. Did not recognise the husky voice as his own.

“Do you want to kiss as much as I do right now?”

Watched her eyes go from slightly fearful to shocked in not even half a second, saw the blood rush to her cheeks, her lips moving slightly, no sound escaping. Her hand shoving him away before he could pull back himself, her angry billow loud in the otherwise empty street, the others already ‘round the corner.

“Asshole!”

Maybe he’d done it to be sure about what she wanted, because he felt resignation bloom inside of his chest. Looked on as she caught up to the others, walked alongside Buccaneer, arms wound around herself. The big guy stopped singing and talked with her instead.

Yet Scar was glad a little, hoped that this would put his heart, the snake in his gut, to rest a little. Whatever he felt she didn’t, so he should focus on his goals, on his training and the priesthood he was fighting for so much.

Though he could not help the feeling of disappointment coursing through him.

And rummaging a few hours later in his pants-pockets for his keys, the little container with paint landed in his hands. Got inside, having forgotten about it after his little stunt, all the feelings her painting had ignited in him returning when he held the box against the light.

It was exactly like his eyes, seemed almost alive, the red broken up by specs of gold and grey. For the first time wondered how she did it, how paints were made at all and why she didn’t just buy them. Read the label, her handwriting neat and loopy, wondering if “Heartthrob” was what this colour was called.

And when his heart mimicked the name of the paint, he sat down on his bed and tried to concentrate. To push the thoughts aside that invaded his mind, to not think about the way her face had scrunched up while painting, how her hips had swayed when flirting with that guy. How she’d encouraged Buccaneer to talk to a girl he liked and how she’d just stayed quiet and observed, smiled, as Miles and Akeem lost themselves in their usual banter.

Tried to imagine his future, that at the break of the winters-fast he’d become a priest in training.

Her face not leaving the back of his mind.

* * *

 

He could talk to the Madame.

The patron of their favourite bar, a woman with connections almost further reaching than these of his adoptive parents. Not his type, but hey, anything that heightened the number of female beings he could talk to.

"Want's it sold under disguise?"

Nodded, sipping from his drink, the lemonade tasting interestingly better without the usual alcohol mixed into it.

"Said something about Summerstones and that you wanted something to get her into the next auction?"

The big woman now nodding too, feather boa slung around her neck, though looking plenty different without the make-up and with her hair open. Had never been to the bar outside of its hours, safe for once when he'd helped Liv to carry one of her bigger paintings.

"She pulled off something in the style of neoclassicism that fast? You saw it, is it any good?"

Harrumphed, was no art-critic and told the lady as much.

"Looked good to me, lots of details and depth to it. I like the palette of colours she used too, though the subject-matter is a bit dark for my tastes."

The Madame looking at him with a smirk now, after taking a long drag from her cigarette.

"Is putting out a lot of gloomy stuff lately, isn’t she?"

Inwardly groaned.

Something had happened between her and Akeem’s brother again, though she'd only told him parts of it. Had apparently parroted her way of making any sentence sound like a flirt, had cornered her, clearly mocking. Had told the guy what she thought of it, but was heartbroken that it seemed to be a joke to him. And her mood had plummeted all through December accordingly, was a mix between spacing out and depressed, the times her door was locked, the music loud, increasing.

What she painted was great, dark, but captivating. The little incident with the missing eye-colour from her batch or not. Had after two days of searching resigned herself to making it anew, this time him being able to convince her that pricking her finger was enough for the blood she needed, a questionable ingredient as it was, never having forgotten the time she cut into her own skin over the kitchen sink. It had been a shallow cut, she knew how to handle a blade, yet it had sent Miles and him into a frenzy at first.

"Must be one of those phases these artists sometimes have."

The Madame not looking like she could be fooled and opening her mouth to prove it.

"She's into that tall, brooding guy, isn’t she? The one that always looks like he doesn’t want to be here? And I bet she thinks it's unrequited?"

An eyebrow rising, one corner of his mouth tipping downwards. Should’ve known that the Madame was observant.

"He's going to become a priest to Ishvala, so..."

The woman cutting into his words with her own faster than he could blink.

"Pah, that never kept a man from wanting a woman! He may think he can ignore it, but you can see it in the way his eyes follow her! He's captivated!"

Would second that, did he not fear one of the Madame’s girls tattling that to Armstrong. Had promised to keep out of everything, after his try to chase the man. Did so, honoured his promise, but had to admit that it was hard. She was a sister to him, strong and fierce of course, but the want to protect someone did not care about such things. He just saw how much it hurt her, the feelings he evoked, her heart that was breaking slowly, but surely.

"And she won’t do anything about it."

His words sounding final, the Madame picking up on that, talking business again.

“The Auction will be on the 22th, a day before your families Winters Ball. Tell her someone will hit her up a few days later and not to show up, okay?”

Cocked his head to the side, the question clear enough. The Madame sighed.

“Your Father came in a few days ago, needed something or other. Maybe mentioned in passing that he’s going to this auction before Christmas. I trust that she hasn’t signed it with her name?”

Shook his head.

“Went with a new tag. And anything we should know?”

The Madame of course not answering, always tight-lipped when it came to his adopted father’s business. As tight-lipped as she seemed to be with Liv’s, when the man asked.

Gulped the rest of his drink down, moving to get up. Confronted with the huge canvas, several feet long and wide. Did never want to ride the tram with something like this again.

“Where do you want this monster?”

Heard her grumble and then call out to the back.

“Sol?”

A man rounding the corner, long black hair in a ponytail, dressed in some lumpy pullover and slacks. A few good heads smaller than him, with a round face and high cheekbones.

“Yeah?”

“Would you please help him carry that canvas on the Sommerstone-pile?”

The guy nodded, walking over to him.

“You the left side, I take the right?”

“Okay.”

The canvas was light, but with two sets of hands the manoeuvring got much easier. Sol led him through a set of small and winding corridors, parts of the Madame’s bar that he’d never even knew existed. At what had to be an entrance to the alley behind the bar, stood a bunch of things.

“This is it!”

The two of them setting the wrapped canvas down carefully, making sure that nothing leaned against it and that, if it fell over, would not get impaled.

He extended his hands to the guy, smiling.

“Thank you, made everything easier!”

His own gratitude met with a wide smile, charming in its own right. His hand taken in a firm grip, though the hand giving it was softer than he’d have expected. Well, had to be a perk of working for the Madame and her girls.

“You’re the guy that always sings karaoke on Saturdays, right?”

Blushed at that, all the words Olivier had for his singing crossing through his mind.

“Yeah, you could say that.”

The other guy beaming though, dark eyes lively and happy and gleaming with something akin to… awe?

“It’s the reason why I love working on karaoke-night! You’re so much fun to watch! And you’re really good too!”

Blushed, deeply, but laughed it off.

“Well, there’re people better at it. But where do you work at the bar, because I’m pretty sure that I haven’t seen you before?”

Saw hesitation at that, how Sol seemed to reign himself in. Was silent for a few moments, before perking up again.

“How about you find out next Saturday? Find me and you’ll get a free drink!”

Extended his hand towards the smaller man again, intrigued. They’d surely hit the bar on next Saturday, which would be right after all the festivities.

“Okay, put it there! Agreed! Be ready to owe me a drink!”

After a few more words left the bar, ready to head home.

Not thinking about Olivier and her messy feelings towards Scar. Miles and Akeem, both on the edge with the latter’s studies, knowing that the all-deciding exam was soon to come. Akeem’s first step to becoming a legal alkahestry-practitioner.

Was instead thinking about the black-haired man he just met, wondering if he’d maybe denied a part of himself for the past few years. Had talked with him normally, enjoyed it too. Liked it even a bit more than usual. Wondering if it was attraction, or just his mind playing tricks on him.

Deciding to ask Liv about it when he got home.

* * *

"You look shook.”

Miles laughing while saying that, Akeem’s mouth hanging open when another artist summersaulted by.

"I honestly thought this was going to be a formal event! I did not expect... a... a..."

"Circus? Believe me, it's tame this year. Last year Strongine clothed the whole family in dresses made out of cut-out genitals from drachman tapestries. You haven’t lived until you've seen the old man walk around in a vagina-sack-jacket."

Smiling to himself, Miles looked around the ballroom.

The annual Winters Ball, held by the Armstrong family, had once been a formal and distinguished event. Still was, in all honesty, only that the meaning of the word “distinguished” had severely changed over time.

Artists were walking around the room, on all fours, or somersaulting, or balancing over the tables. The decoration was simple this year, the black, white and red cut clear, with lots of contrast. This made the little things stand out more, the flowers made from imported pearls adorning the tables, the little details of glitter, forming swirls on several surfaces, highlighted when the spotlights hit them.

The garden was filled with ice-sculptures again this year, though they were less daring than those of the last ball. Had excitedly walked around the premises with Akeem, holding hands. Showed him around, introduced him to Armstrong’s and Buccaneers parents, by whom he was greeted just as heartfelt as Miles always was, whelmed with a barrage of questions.

Akeem’s mouth by now having closed again, the man looking spectacular in the suit Strongine had put together. Armstrong’s second sister always clothing the whole family for this event, more than just an influential designer in Amestris.

Was clothing him too, as soon as he was considered part of the family, this extended for this year to Akeem and his brother. Had toned it down for them of course, the sharply cut and shining three-piece suit Akeem wore fitted to him, as well as the white dress shirt, two buttons opened up.

A bit of chest was peeking out, wisps of white hair on dark skin he knew to be as smooth as humanly possible. A red and gold sash wound around his waist, bordering on purple. Miles had supplied Strongine with a sample of Akeem’s and Scar's old family-sash, delivered by Olivier when she went to have the first draft of her dress fitted. Had heard that it had been a hard job to dye a piece of cloth the colour, that Strongine had gone to great lengths to hit up Ishvalan weavers and seamstresses to gift them with something genuine, knowing that a knock-off wouldn’t be appreciated.

Had thanked her accordingly, Akeem and Scar too, blown away when handed their clothes for the evening. The former still looking at him in awe, probably thinking about how last-years dresses must've looked.

"Okay Miles, if they all wore dresses made of genital-cut-outs, please tell me they decorated the place with..."

His laughter cutting in alongside his words.

"The biggest I think anybody had ever seen!"

The other still looking a bit shook, though a grin was stretching his mouth now.

"And none of the pearl-laden ladies suffered a heart attack seeing that?!"

Buccaneers gruff voice coming up behind them, laden with humour.

"They acted outraged at first, but after the first two glasses of champagne were downed, you could hear them make all kinds of bets that left us open-mouthed!"

The big guy was dressed decidedly frillier than Akeem, wearing perfectly cut burgundy dress-pants and a jacket, sleeves cut sharply, almost forming pointy ends at the elbows. His chest was bare, safe for a thick and padded kind of belt, sheer white around his middle, held together by a golden belt-buckle. It was a nod to Buccaneers heritage, coming from the border-region between Amestris and Drachma. Caribou-herders, traditionalists and with a culture older than most others known.

Almost completely eradicated about twenty years ago, the story of his childhood having come to the table again, with what basically was Akeem’s and Scars introduction to their little family. Especially with it being easy to see that Buccaneer, though Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong called him their son, was not born as such, looking more than just different from his siblings.

"So, the room was really decorated with giant...?"

Akeem leaving the word to hang in the air, though the now finally catching up to them Olivier having little to no qualms saying it aloud.

"Dildos? Gods, they were huge and everywhere! We should show you the pictures we took with the sculptured ones in the garden! Miles insisted on taking one where it was pushing against his..."

Her words cut short by his own.

"Yes Livvie, thank you very much. And here I wanted to hide these dirty secrets!"

All four of them sharing a round of laughter, before an honest question found its way, all pressed tighter together by a group of people passing them.

"Where have you been anyways?"

The annual ball their thing, the one day of the year where they all let go, dressed ridiculously and elegant at the same time, their, in parts chosen, family around them. As well as music, food and drinks. They stuck together normally, took photos in the beginning, Strongine’s creations and make-up still intact then, this time Olivier vanishing after that though.

"Dad pulled me to the side."

Buccaneer and him hissing through their teeth, Akeem too, a bit too late.

"Oh, it wasn’t too bad. He first wanted to give me a stern talking to, concerning my degree and everything else basically, but then one of his business-partners showed up. Must've been Raven, together with his wife. Tried his hardest to keep his eyes on these of my father, but really seemed to have a hard time with my dress. His wife noted and got angry, which Dad thought to be hilarious. I just got away, after I made sure that Dad wasn’t dying of laughter."

The dress Strongine had sewn her into for today was capable of destroying marriages, Miles was sure.

Olivier was her younger sisters favourite model, though at the same time the most unwilling one, too. But they'd made a deal for the Winters Ball, Strongine always offering an outlook on next year’s new fashion-line, her sisters and brothers used as models. Miles too, after a year of being their roommate, today dressed in a white three-piece, cut tightly, the only accents a deep red. His own grandfathers sash wound around his waist, purple, trimmed with silver.

Liv though, was stunning.

Really sewn into the ensemble, a golden metal-ring covering her neck, red cloth falling from it, softly parting at her shoulders. her back framed by the silky cloth, topped off with a layer of fine embroidery, meeting again just above her behind, the front of the dress almost the same. Strongine had offered her sister a bit more cloth though, breasts covered in a way that let the swell of them be seen not only from the top, but gave the viewer a generous bit of side-boob. Olivier’s stomach bare until below her navel, red silk meeting there again, cascading down into a skirt that followed a metre behind her.

Knew that it had taken the Armstrong-sisters a generous amount of alcohol to get her to even step into the dress at first, another good swig to convince her that the rather unconventional method of keeping the dress in place with the help of sewn-in magnets and convenient piercings was a good idea and then another beer and a bit of pleading to get her to step outside at all.

It had been made his duty then, once Olivier had been announced to the crowds after a healthy shove into the room by her mother, to keep her from running off again.

Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, absolutely all of it bound with a golden metal-ring, both eyes free to pierce you with their gaze. One eye only highlighted with mascara and eyeliner, blonde eyelashes looking so very different from usual, her other eye, not only the lid, but an inch or two above and underneath it tipped off with gold. Lips nude, though he could see that the glasses pushed to her lips already had taken their due there.

His boyfriend speaking up, having been the first one to tell Olivier how amazing she looked after she'd been shoved into the room. His own hair pulled into a tiny bun, finally long enough to do so. The sides underneath shorn now, like his younger brothers.

"Do you have any idea where my brother vanished to?"

Scar having gone missing about five seconds after their pictures were done and Olivier and Buccaneer took some with their family.

The blonde not looking cold, having had too much to drink for that, but not amused either.

"Saw him near the buffet last."

Miles did not dare to say that he completely understood what had went down between Armstrong and Scar again. They'd been a bit weird after the art-class-incident, but nothing extraordinary. Had learned together with Akeem a few days later, that Scar had apparently said something to her that set off one of her moods. All of them keeping mostly out of it if he was honest, all keeping their mouths shut, Akeem especially.

Had said that he knew his brother better than anybody and concerning this whole spiel, he knew him even better than Scar knew himself.

All of them agreeing that they shouldn’t worry too hard, that even though there was something in the air between the other two, their handling of the other rather normal. Olivier had learned for one of her art-history quizzes once, when Scar had tested her, showing off his vast knowledge. And Scar had helped search when they’d turned their apartment on its head, after one of Armstrong’s pints of paint got lost.

So, they'd left it at that during their meeting of three, only Akeem, Buccaneer and him.

Had heard for the third time in his life the story of Bucky's childhood, how his parents had died in what could only be described as genocide at the border-region between Drachma and Amestris, both countries having thought for the slip of land, both treating the lives of the natives as expandable. How he'd entered the foster system with seven-years-old, went through too many families to count, only to end up at ten years in the care of the Armstrong family, initially brought there through a state-effort that had been made to promote self-care for those of able body and instead had promoted child-labour.

Heard the story again, how he’d met Olivier while working in the gardens, who'd absolutely not understood why he couldn’t play with her. Doing so anyways soon, bringing him in to eat and play with her siblings too. Soon her parents had caught on, had understood whom the gardener had hired as a help. He'd gotten lucky then, Philip and Augustine Armstrong appalled at what they heard, taking him on, treating him as the child he was instead of cheap labour. He went to school, wore clean clothes and even got therapy, had hobbies and a family, all of that rather suddenly.

Miles noticing that his big friend left out a lot of the details, most of them grisly.

The violence in many of the foster families. The things he'd seen happen to his people. How he'd worked more than ten hours a day for a year, before send to the Armstrong’s. how hard the transition had been and how hard it was now, little of his culture anywhere to be found.

But Akeem had told him later that he know understood why Bucky and Liv watched out so carefully for the other.

The latter snuck up from behind by her mother, arms winding around her daughter’s middle, a chin resting on her head. Miles marvelling at how alike they looked, Augustina Armstrong’s laughter close to the tone of her daughter’s yelp.

"Miles, Akeem, I need to steal my daughter away for a moment. Phillip wants to show off the things he bought and said that I absolutely have to bring Ollie! But you come too, it’ll be fun I bet!”

Strong arms not caring about her daughter’s struggles, dragged away through the crowd, though the unmistakable sound of her laughter was mixed into it all.

"They are all so damn kind to me!"

Akeem’s face something between amused and shocked, his eyes wide while his mouth was set to a somewhat goofy smile.

"I love you, so they do to! Buccaneer and Liv are family and decided that I'm part of the family too. So, you are now in on it all, if you want to or not!"

Expected a nervous laugh, rejection even, instead got a relieved smile and a soft hand burrowing taking a hold of his own.

"Well, my love, I think we better show up to the next family event then! I have my fingers crossed for something extraordinary.

Miles being pulled away, laughing all the while.

The two winding through the crowd together, taking their time with catching up to the family. Picking up Scar along the way, who’d really hung around the buffet, trying to stay out of sight. Without further ado Akeem pulled him along. Answering to the confused question only that they were going on an adventure, Miles wondering how much his love had already had to drink.

Saw Buccaneers bulk in the crowd, Liv’s blond head next to him and they weaved through the people conglomerating around Philip Gargantos Armstrong. The man was business to the bone, though not without an unfairly huge share of humour. His beard over-styled, the jacket he wore sparkling. Pointed at a painting on the wall, hidden by a sheet of sheer cloth.

“Just in time. He’s almost done rambling!”

Liv only turning around to them shortly, the view more than just nice from this angle, if he were truly interested in it. Heard Scar make a slight sound behind him though, smirked, but keeping his thoughts to himself.

And right on time the man pulled at the sheet, revealing something he’d been sure to not see so very soon again.

It was longer than high, realistic.

Knew that the building was a slightly stylized Ishvalan house of prayer, it’s build tipping him off, as well as the shapes the walls were painted with. You could see men walking in, only their backs from the given perspective, in the black robes of those that were priests in training, all with their heads bowed. What had the people around him gasping though, were the woman on the other side of the church.

Robed also in black, as if in mourning, those seeming older forming a ring around those looking younger. They were holding them back he noticed, from running to the men. Were looking desperate, heartbroken, marvelled at how real the tears on their faces looked.

Only now noticed that not all, but some of the men were looking over to the women too, even if only slightly. Others walking with their eyes set firmly on the house of prayer, their gaze not straying. And between the two groups, the whole scene put to live in what could’ve been the plaza in his grandfather’s hometown, stood the mandatory statue of Ishvala.

Stylized too, the painting or sculpting of their god forbidden to those of Ishvalan belief, though they’d turned to artists of other cultures for that. It looked a lot like some he’d seen before, was a mixture of the most common things you saw in them. With the words etched into the pedestal that could be found on every single one of the statues, written in Ishvalan.

“I, Ishvala, created the world and everything in it. Nothing shall be separated, nothing shall be destroyed. Only love shall exist.”

Scar breathed the words next to him, the prayer the most common one.

Watched, as Buccaneer managed to get Armstrong away from the throng of people surrounding them, leading her away as quickly as possible.

Miles all the while wondering how the painting had made its way from Livs room to her father’s wall in such a short time. Was sure that he’d seen it only half-done in her room two weeks ago, Akeem next to him still thankfully oblivious.

And what shook him most was Scar, stepping towards Armstrong Senior after the initial buzz died down, discussing with the man the impact of the piece of art in front of them. How important it was that something like that was added to the ongoing discussion, that the insight into the matter presented was more than just important.

Drowning on about women being side-lined in favour of Ishvala by many a young priest, that some even left their already existing families to serve their god instead. That Ishvala promoted love, praising the use and positioning of quote and statue.

All the while Buccaneer trying to calm down an almost hyperventilating Olivier, overchallenged by the situation, who’d painted this to somehow give her pain a face.

“Come on, let’s go outside.”

Him now pulling Akeem with him, who was puzzled for the most part, remained to be for the reminder of the night.

They caught up to Buccaneer and Armstrong, the latter trying to laugh the matter off after absorbing the initial shock, joking about not having to worry about the rent for a while. All of them drinking instead of talking, dancing, their night ending when Rick Astley started to play, a tradition held upright by the Armstrong Family for almost twenty years.

And when he was leading Akeem into their room in the family wing, he saw Olivier’s mother come down the hall, walking with a sure step towards her oldest daughter’s door. Knew, that the woman must’ve gotten the vibes of desperation, of pain from her daughter, understood her too well not to.

The next day starting only with the sun already high in the sky, all of them looking like they’d been put through the grinder.

Buccaneer, Oliver and him almost choking on their food, when her father happily told them over breakfast, how much he’d paid for his newest acquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading :D  
> I'd jump out of my skin with happyness, if you left me Kudos or dropped me a line and seeing as this is a fic relying a bit on reader-participation, I'm just thirlled to hear all of your ideas :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail Inkuisitivskins for this prompt yet again!  
> Have another, my dear readers <3

_"I don't care who you are..."_

The blonde let herself plop down on one of the bar stools, wincing audibly.

"God, I really don't understand how you can like that. It sounds like he's skinning a cat while it’s alive!"

Shrugging, she reached beneath the bar, without waiting for her to ask, whipping out her favourite kind of beer. The clink of the bottle-opener, the hissing of the air a sound well-known to her, though not one she wanted to hear for the rest of her life. Only barely heard at all, after the man’s singing. Waved back towards one of the other girls, Vanessa this time, indicating to her that she should please get the Madame.

"Well Miss Armstrong, I'd say that you just can't appreciate the beauty of his voice!"

The blonde laughing, long hair falling in front of one eye, still static from the woolly hat she'd come in with.

"And I'd say you never heard the original before, if you think that this is a good rendition of "As long as you love me" from the Backstreet Boys! And I told you a thousand times by now, it's Olivier."

She scoffed, smiling, the banter with the blonde always having come easy.

"His voice is special!"

"Yeah, especially hard on the ears!"

Cocked her head to the side at that, long and black hair falling freely.

"You were a fan of the band as a teen?"

The blonde’s eyes went wide, Olivier’s mouth hung open in shock. Her nose wrinkled, like she'd just been handed an especially rotten and smelly fruit.

"Excuse me! I was a Spice Girls-girl all the way, okay?! Backstreet Boys... and here I sit, really trying to help you!"

The gleam of humour in her eyes not easy to see, but she'd trained for a while now. Not to mention that she came by fairly often outside of their usual hours, which meant that she got to get to know the woman in a much more relaxed manner.

Felt a tap on the shoulder, the Madame silently telling her to step to the side for a bit, so she could talk business with Olivier. The words accompanying that unusual, but not unwanted.

"If you let me talk to her a bit Solaris? You can swoon at the big guy from over there!"

Blushed a little, stepping to the side, though knew that it wasn’t a secret amongst the staff of the bar, nor to anyone else with eyes in their head, that she had a thing for their regular. Watched Buccaneer on the stage, loose jeans and an equally loose shirt, something from a game printed on it she did not recognise. The sides of his head shorn short, as it was fashion now, the rest of it long though, braided tightly to his head.

The end of the braid tipped off with a little bow.

She’d seen his eyes sweep the place more than once, carefully and slowly, but he’d not yet caught on. Counted herself lucky even, having finally gotten face to face with him on a day she’d felt fully masculine. Knew that he could not speak to women, most at least, and even had felt something she couldn’t put her finger on, when he’d flawlessly identified her as a male. Could be sure that his selective mutism reacted not to her physical gender, but to how she felt and as such acted.

Hoped, that he could talk not only to Sol, but to Solaris too.

Watched his braid sway in tune with his singing, only out of the corner of her eye seeing the Madame and Olivier exchange words and an envelope she knew to be a lot more full than usual. Had seen the pictures in the newspaper and on the net, their Saturday-regulars dressed sharply, in the blonde’s case almost scandalously. The ball must’ve been legendary, as the Armstrong’s festivities always were, though the girls had only talked about the way Buccaneer had been dressed, so much muscle exposed, to watch her reactions.

Had already heard the story of Olivier’s painting having been bought by her own father, who was, according to the Madame, clueless.

Was ripped out of her thoughts by another man taking the stage, which had her search for Buccaneer again. The big man already near, standing next to Olivier, who was slipping the envelope in her pant-pocket. Wondered for a second where she’d bought it, for it to have pockets, only to notice that the person she’d set her eyes on for quite some time by now was holding two fingers up at her, his usual mute gesture to order a beer.

Their eyes locking onto the others, Buccaneer blushing, his face then loosing all of its colour, only to blush again.

Was lost in his eyes for quite a while, the big guy all the while looking like a fish out of water, trying to find words and being unable to. It was the blonde’s slight snicker that pulled them out of their mutual freeze, which had Buccaneer scramble to her side and try to whisper in her ear. The big guy almost a comical sight, leaning next to the really small and slight blonde, who was shooing him away with an irritated look on her face.

Would laugh, if she weren’t so nervous.

“Well, now that you caught on, Buccaneer, this is Solaris. Solaris, this is Buccaneer!”

Looked between them for a few moments, until she sighed.

“It’s not gonna work this way, huh? Why’s nothing ever easy!?”

The blonde standing up, talking quietly with Buccaneer and pointing towards an empty table. Then turning to her, when the man was on his unsteady way over to where she’d shown him.

The woman sighing again, deeply, seemingly just for good measure.

“Okay, Solaris, I guess he’s caught on. Going by how he looks, and believe me when I say that I know him well, he’s a bit shocked, probably for being a dumb troll and never noticing before, but I don’t think that he’s crushing less on you, so…”

Her slight squeal a bit embarrassing, but not willing to be held back.

“He’s been crushing on me?!”

The woman opposite of her looking like she was ready to blow a fuse, a hand threading through her hair.

“Yes! The point is though, he’s waiting for you over there, so go talk to him. And you know…”

Gulped, her stomach still feeling like it was ready to turn over in fear and excitement, finishing the others sentence.

“…don’t worry when he’s not saying anything!”

The other nodding.

“Yep, that’s it. And…”

The blonde pausing for a moment, her gaze, not especially kind at the best of days, now looking downright dangerous.

"Be kind to him, he never had it easy. If you hurt him, well..."

Made a gesture that wasn't hard to interpret.

"Everything clear?"

Felt herself nod.

"Cristal."

Took a deep breath, walking towards the table Buccaneer had sat down at, smoothing out non-existent wrinkles in her dress, a nervous flicker of a smile on her lips. Did not think about Olivier’s words, or what the Madame had told her about how to woo men. Her colleagues and friends, split half and half on the question if this was a good idea, or a bad one.

Instead sat down opposite of the man, looking into his eyes. A very dark blue, but trained on her, uncertainty showing in them, confusion. A hint of something else, though she wasn’t sure what. The words coming easily to her though.

"Hey."

Not as easily to him, but he somehow managed.

* * *

He'd lain in bed after the ball, huge and comfy and utterly too big, and thought about what a fool he'd been.

The painting Armstrong’s and Buccaneers father had unveiled, had moved something within him. After the Tuesday’s-chant they'd often spoken about the implications and changes throughout the history of priesthood over sweet tea. It had always been a topic of discussion, the celibacy that went alongside with it, not always having been part of being a priest to Ishvala.

It was introduced about two hundred years ago, when alchemy had cropped up more and more, was condemned swiftly by the head-priest of Ishvala at the time and the priest of lower rank tasked with its eradication. But at the time they’d not just been busy with tending to their community, but also with their families, many against the sudden notion to travel further, not always with the certainty that they’d be coming back.

The next generations of priests then, had lived in celibacy from the very beginning.

It was frowned upon, even more nowadays, with the belief of Ishvala being decentralised at best. He'd heard the stories of young men being forced to enter the church, it being an honour to the family and all. Of the aching hearts left behind, but also the more dramatic cases, in which fathers had left their families later in life to join the clergy, their wife and children often left to fend for themselves. The cases in which then priests had broken their vows, caught with those they'd loved before.

The old law demanded the death of both, it being a huge disgrace to Ishvala, the modern laws of course forbidding that.

Yet there was of course another kind of punishment when that happened, your own community treating you like you were nothing anymore. Here it was often the women too, that took the brunt of it all, left with the shame, maidenhead still considered important by his elders. Where sometimes even left with a child born out of wedlock, still considered one of the worst things that could happen to a young Ishvalan woman according to many. The man could atone, could return to Ishvala if he pledged a life of service, as unfair as this was.

He'd not been too outspoken, but had always taken a stance against the forced celibacy. Had opted for people being able to choose if they wanted to make it a part of their pledge, that priests with a family then simply stayed in the community, keeping close to it for decades instead of wandering around.

Had prepared himself for it anyways though, when he'd turned fifteen, already on the run.

He had kissed a girl once, after midsummer's. And a week later the war had reached their hometown. Two weeks later his parents had been dead. Priests had taken him and Akeem in, the head-priest of Ishvala and his following. They'd been treated well and kindly, their wounds taken care of, their pain alleviated with prayer and kindness.

He remembered that he'd asked his brother back then to hide his alchemic research, too keep it from the priests in fear of being shooed away again.

Knew for some time now, that he'd suffered from a kind of hero-worship back then. He'd fought with his brother a lot before reaching West City after a yearlong odyssey. Had fulminated against his alchemy and his criticism of the clergy, against his sexuality too, when he'd understood. Maybe had repressed his own along the way, not even thinking about boys and girls, only about Ishvala.

The priests in West City and in Central had been different, especially the latter much more mellow in their beliefs, had brought him and his brother truly back together again. He'd also left behind much of the hot-headedness of his youth, though not nearly all, instead focused on training his body and mind. For long years not thinking about anything else but becoming a priest though.

And when he'd left the ball after a lengthy discussion with the host, many thoughts flurrying through his mind, had gotten into the room designated to him, the painting over the dresser had captured his gaze.

It had been a painting of the Briggs Mountain Range, mountains and snow, the infamous Iron Wall spanning the space between two of them, over a hundred years old and still showing no sign of decay. It had been a captivating picture, felt almost real to him, like cold was crawling up his skin. Saw the brushstrokes and the colours, felt a vibe of familiarity.

The little note had tipped him off about the location this was painted at. And then he read a familiar name, _her name_ , and a year next to it. Marvelled upon the painting a teen-Olivier must've created, how her brushstrokes had become more precise, her colours livelier, how close this already was in technique to the one he'd only seen...

And then his mind had started to loop for half an hour:

It was hers. It was hers. IT WAS HERS!

He'd talked big with her father, about how he shared the artists opinion on the matter, that it was cruel and unnecessary to keep people that loved each other apart, making a god stand between them that would in no way condone people being kept apart in their name. How extraordinary the artist was to have created such a thing, full of hurt and pain and raw emotion.

Had fallen backwards on the bed after his brain was done being in overdrive, just to get thrown into another fit of hard thinking only seconds later.

Wondered for a few minutes, why she’d paint something like this, why this topic would evoke so much emotion inside of her. Had asked himself if maybe one of his fellow monks had mentioned something, if she maybe knew someone who was on the way to become a priest.

The revelation hitting him like a ton of bricks.

Hadn’t known what to do with the information, had avoided her gaze during breakfast the next morning, had declined their Saturday-Bar-offer and instead decided to keep himself away from her, to detach himself from these thoughts for a few days.

Sequestered himself in his rooms between the holidays, mentally prepared himself for the 31st, the day on which he’d learn if his path to priesthood would continue, or if the elders had decided that it wasn’t for him.

And just now he was kneeling on the floor with all those others that had trained to become priests alongside with him.

They’d not been brought to the house of prayer, instead inside of a small hall on the opposite side of the street. According to tradition there’d be several stages, laws, the elders read aloud, asking you to leave if you did not live in accordance to it. Would get the chance to try again if you wanted to.

With each of the stages passed, they bowed deeper, until their foreheads were touching the ground. Half of their group was gone, yet he was still there.

Heard, when the elders asked them to stand up, should they be willing to serve Ishvala for their whole lifetime and beyond. To follow them outside, over to the house of prayer, to begin their first lecture as future priests. People shuffling around him, slowly, his master having told him that this was the one moment were many hesitated, that it was normal.

And yet, he remained with his forehead on the floor.

His hands clasped in prayer, words he’d once been told echoing through his head. That serving Ishvala was the best thing someone could do. That their people would not just need priests when they returned to reclaim their homeland. That the Ishvalan culture was not just preserved by the clergy, but by the normal people living their live each day to the fullest.

Thought about his brother, who’d reminded him of their father so often during the years, stern and concerned at the same time. The troubles they’d managed together, his wounds, his brother’s studies. He’d learned to be proud of the things his brother had achieved, that he was comfortable in his own skin, whatever others may say about it. Thought about Miles, who not only believed in Ishvala, but the other gods he’d grown up with too.

Buccaneer invading his mind then, things having happened to him that were so much like what Akeem and he had survived. He’d lost a family, his whole heritage, and yet he’d gained a new one, not only through luck, but through determination and love also.

Olivier of course entering his mind now, the person he wanted to push away the most and at the same time the one that would not let it happen.

He’d been drawn to her not by her beauty, but by her kindness. She cared for Miles, had extended this care to his brother the second there was even the slimmest chance of him becoming part of their little family. Had extended it to him, when his temper got the better of him, instead of taking what would have been her right to do, to have him punished for his violent outburst.

Had prompted him to work on himself instead, waited, with steely eyes full of resolve, for him to become the person she seemed to think he could be.

His heart lurching, climbing up inside his throat, pushing out the tears that had waited in the corner of his eyes. Silently they ran down his cheeks, over scars left by a war that had taken everything from him. A shiver running through him, his heart erupting into a heap of emotion he had trouble handling.

Ishvala would never condone that in their name love was forbidden.

Familial. Platonic. Romantic.

His master said his name, his sacred one, but Scar let his head remain on the floor.

Not standing up.

* * *

They waited outside, together with all the other families.

It was tradition this way, that they’d wait for the future priests to walk over to the house of prayer, in which they’d receive their first lesson of many. People had brought food and drink, some surer of their loved ones having shown what it took to continue on the path, others around him watching with tears in their eyes, when their crestfallen children, brothers and cousins, left the hall before the time had come.

Miles had come too, had wound his arms around his middle from behind, keeping him warm.

Rested his chin on his shoulder, eyes locked on the door, while silently shivering too, New Year’s Eve having brought them freezing temperatures. Would, depending on what happened now, either spend the night with Miles at Christmas Bar, or probably searching for his irritated brother.

Was not sure if he’d be taken on, knew that his brother was still troubled by many things, plagued by nightmares. Had found solace in Ishvala, stability, but forgot to be himself.

A new batch of sad-looking young men left the hall, his brother not among them.

Cold air escaping him at that, a mixture of relieve and fear flooding him.

“This was the last stage, that means they’ll take him on!”

His voice a whisper, the whole street very quiet, though many were talking amongst themselves.

“This means they’ll wander over the street soon, to the house of prayer?”

Nodded, leaning his head against Miles’, his glasses pushing into his nose a little.

“They get the chance to back out now, by not stepping outside, but this as good as never happens.”

Still both of them waiting, though ease surged through him. His brother had worked for this a long time, whatever he thought about it himself. Was not the type to back out, rather saw things through to the end, even if this meant his whole life.

Scanned the crowd while they waited, but Buccaneer and Olivier nowhere he could see them.

They’d talked at last Saturday’s outing, about how they all would come for this important moment of course, that they were family now and would be treated as such. He’d been a bit worried by that, his brother not even mentioning the blonde the past few days, before always having commented at last, on this and that.

Was sure that he felt something for her, even more sure that she felt something for him, though both Miles and Buccaneer had advised him against saying anything. Knew that they were right, that things would figure themselves out probably, after the decision was finally through, Scars coming priesthood confirmed.

Watching together with Miles, when the first men dressed in black robes left the hall, families holding their breath letting out sounds of relieve.

His heart sinking when it took long, his brothers master waiting at the door for a long while. Saw commotion and something akin to hidden hectic, saw sadness flash over the man’s face.

And then the doors to the hall were closed, his brother not having stepped out of it.

Miles was his anchor, pulling him into an alley, cutting through the throng of people stepping into the house of prayer behind the newly appointed priests. Bumped into people without problem, only half a head taller than him, but bulkier, stronger and seemingly only set on giving him some privacy.

The tears falling from his eyes before he could stop them.

Sobbed miserably for a few moments, feeling like the world was falling to pieces. Just a few days ago he’d taken an exam, the first he had to write if he wanted a shot at becoming a licensed alkahestrist. Had done little more than studied for a month, Miles always by his side, quizzing him and just making sure that he did not faint. And Scar had drowned himself in his prayers and practice, had meditated for hours on end, spend even more time under the tutelage of his master.

And now his brother’s plans had been put to shambles by himself, his decision clear, but something Akeem could not comprehend.

What did his brother want to do now? What if they lost the support of the temple? Being rejected as a priest was one thing, rejecting priesthood yourself something else entirely. They lived in a house with only other Ishvalans, they’d not be happy, would probably be appalled even. Wondered already if his brother was still in there, bowed, his head pressed to the floor.

Maybe already regretting his decision.

Hands were coming up around his face, warm and devoid of gloves.

Miles forcing him to look into his eyes, a deep sea of red, mischief and worry in them, love and adoration. Let his eyes sweep over lips, slightly cracked from the cold, the blue parka fitting his equally blue hat so well. The white strands peeking out.

His voice level when he spoke, worry and calm swinging through in every syllable.

“Don’t overthink now Akeem, we’ll figure it all out! What can I do?”

His voice stuffy with tears when he answered.

"Quick, make me laugh Miles!"

His boyfriend immediately looking less worried, instead putting on a charming smile, a wiggle to his eyebrows. His voice changing from almost unpitched, to savvy and wistful.

"How can you still look so attractive while crying?"

Laughter escaping him through the tears, feeling Miles arms wind around him, holding him tight. The words whispered into his ear making his heart lighter a bit, easing away the gloomy thoughts.

"Don’t laugh, this was an honest question! And stop worrying, we’ll figure everything out! He has his reasons, probably."

A kiss pressed to his temple afterwards.

Miles was right though. Nothing was alright at the moment, but it soon would be again. Probably.

Breathed deeply, faced his love and smiled through his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My loves, your opinion is my creed! How should we proceed?  
> Hit me up here or on Tumblr: http://illidria.tumblr.com/
> 
> And thank you for reading :D


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this one is promptless, though honestly, I'm in dire need of some, so bombard me :D  
> Happy reading^^

“Is Buccaneer always like that?”

He’d learned to talk normally with her at last, though Scar had taken his sweet time. Picked up the right kind of pasta, while she felt the ishvalan man stare at her back.

“Like what exactly?”

His gaze inquiring when she turned, his mouth set into a thin line. Had learned to interpret this look of his as one of worry, at least that seemed to be what he wanted to convey with it. Marvelled, how he still managed to look so stern with his arms crossed, like he did not want to be here, even though he’d offered to go with her the second she’d asked at the dinner-table.

“So terse and, well, stressed?”

She sighed.

New Year’s had been spent at Christmas Bar, though the mood had been everything but nice. Miles had consoled Akeem whenever the man had started to cry again when overwhelmed with fear of the future. Solaris had made time for Buccaneer at midnight, holding his hand and talking quietly with him, though she too was gripped by their mutually tense mood. Scar and she had just been silent, sitting next to the other.

Their cheer at midnight had been happier the years before, to say the least.

“He always had trouble with my sleeping-schedule, I accidently wake him up often when I wander around. And now, as he must divide his time between his work, school and Solaris, his nerves are stretched thin. Not to mention that he insists on picking me up whenever I go out at night.”

Scar almost humming an answer at that, though wandering silently through the aisles with her for several minutes.

Akeem’s fears hadn’t been for naught, because not a day after his little brother had refused joining the clergy, their landlord had politely yet sternly asked them to move out. Miles had looked over their contract, crushing their last bit of hope of staying in their flat, as the paper wasn’t worth the trees felled for it. And Akeem’s and Scar’s neighbours, usually kind and understanding, suddenly were talking about Akeem’s sexuality and alchemy, not even bothering to lower their voices.

Wondered how Scar fared with the realization, that his until then chosen path had been the only thing keeping his neighbours mouths in check.

The Ishvalan only speaking again when handing her down a packet of paper towels.

“I could change rooms with him.”

Olivier felt a blush creep to her cheeks.

It was true that Buccaneer was suffering because of their tight arrangements, Akeem having moved in with Miles of course, Scar having gotten Buccaneers room. She’d made room for the fold-out bed from the cellar, moved a lot of her stuff around for it, having the biggest room or not. Buccaneers voice still ringing in her ears, his pleas for her to not let her drawing-material spill into the living room yet again. It all was very tiresome to him.

But the mere thought of sharing the room with Scar, had her grapple for words.

“I mean,” Olivier was a bit relieved that the Ishvalan now started fumbling with words in her stead. “…I’m out for work in the middle of the night and only come back when you already have classes, so we’d rarely ever be in there at the same time. And only if you want to of course, and…”

Let his fading out sentences sink in, gave herself time to think while browsing through the selection of milk the store offered.

The second they’d heard of the trouble the brothers head, Miles, Buccaneer and she had instantly decided that they could move in with them. Finding a flat wouldn’t be an easy feat for Akeem and Scar, not with their heritage and backgrounds. So, they’d moved stuff around, made as much room as possible and, somehow, made it work. For almost a month now, too.

Olivier felt that her blush would not fade anytime soon, so she grabbed a carton of skimmed milk and turned to Scar while putting it in their cart. A soft blush on his face too, a touch of colour highlighting his cheeks. She ignored the throb her heart gave and spoke with a level voice.

“Not a bad idea, it would help de-stress Buccaneer a lot. And if you’re really all right with it, I wouldn’t mind.”

Knew that she’d not sounded as nonchalant as she’d wanted to and dwelled on it after Scar nodded in agreement to hers and the silence that developed from that.

They walked through the store some more, working off their list, Scar reaching the things in the top-shelves, while Olivier got the rest. Was aware that she avoided looking at him and that he avoided looking at her, something they’d perfected since he and his brother had moved in.

Akeem and Scar had quickly understood that the apartments bathroom-rule of “everything over ten minutes needs to be announced”, led to either short showers or people turning around in anticipation when you finally left the sole bathroom after a longer time. Either way, Olivier had now two more people to scowl at when they showered overtime, never having understood how a shower could possibly take more than five minutes.

And she’d been used to Buccaneer or Miles tip-toeing through the hallway afterwards, towels wound around their waist, and in the formers case wound around the head, too. Buccaneer she scowled at, but was not inclined to look, thinking it to be icky at best. Miles was nice enough to look at, his abs more defined than rightfully possible for someone that was aiming to become a desk-jokey, but while they often complimented the others looks, both new that it would never be more than platonically anyways and as such did so in good humour.

Now she had two new people to scowl at, though Akeem only showered for about ten minutes, which was a positive record for the boys, and as such got scowled at rarely. Was still a sight to see, though not as defined as the others, even if she of course new that he was pretty much the same case as Miles. Her problem though, had become Scar.

Never did he shower under twenty minutes. He hadn’t a good excuse either, like Buccaneer and his long hair, instead not even trying to appease her when she scowled at him. And he stunned her into silence too, because even though he was skirting the house of prayer and the training there at the moment, he still looked like he bench-pressed tons every day. Was defined more than someone legally should allowed to be, walked upright down the hallway and did not even seem to care that his few longer whips of hair, after the shower sticking up wildly, made him look ruggedly handsome.

“Hey Armstrong, which kind are we ought to buy again?”

Was pulled out of her deep thoughts by their arrival in the body-wash section and Scars subsequent question.

“One ice, one vanilla and one chocolate. And we need to pick up the hair wash for Buccaneer too, the black bottle up there, right above your head.”

Scar handing her the desired items one by one, while she contemplated the fact that while thinking about his body she would not blush, yet alone the thought of sleeping in the same room as him, had the heat rising to her face again.

His attempt at small-talk quenched it.

“I wasn’t aware that chocolate was yours.”

Olivier caught the laugh in her throat, though Scars gaze assured her that he caught her amusement.

“Because it isn’t. The ice one is for me, I dunno why the boys insist on smelling like sweets.”

The man looking at her, white brows meeting over his nose. For the first time she truly noticed that the hair was sparser where his scar crossed underneath, the skin paler, looking slightly bumpy. Noticed that she’d stared for too long and looked away again, rearranging the things in their cart.

“Then I have to apologize, because I’ve been using yours the first week of my stay. I’d though it belonged to Miles and as such had asked him.”

Smiled at him, only for a moment, trying to ease the tension that cropped up more and more often they talked, so many topics to avoid that she sometimes wished that they could just be in total silence for more than a few minutes. Or speak openly.

“It’s funny that no-one _ever_ thinks that it belongs to Buccaneer.”

Scar reaching for something while they were now nearing the checkout, pushing the cart.

“I sleep in his room and the big container with melon-body-butter is hard to miss. Also, he’s written his name on it for some reason?”

Lived for these moments in which she could talk with him like that, so freely and open and unearthing that Scar, even though he tried to hide it, had a sense of humour.

“Miles once made a joke from a tv-show, about eating body butter. Buccaneer took it a bit too literally.”

Something akin to a smile running over the scarred man’s face, though vanishing as quickly as it came.

Olivier remembering something then, the line before them long.

“By the way, you remember the live-drawing class, right?”, watched him nod, though he squirmed as much as she did at the memory, “The portraits were exhibited in the main-hall of Central University and there’s someone that wants to buy the one I made of you. The Professor approached me and asked if I even want to sell and I told him that I wanted to ask you first.”

The line moving only slowly in front of them.

“Did he tell you anything about the buyer? Wouldn’t want my face to hang on some military-guys wall.”

“He’s been a bit pushy with the information, but I got out of him that a woman wants to buy it for her husband. Something about the style being similar to something else her husband owns and how it would be the perfect birthday-present for him.”

Scar shrugged, though straightened when they could finally put their stuff up to be checked out.

“Fine by me then. Though Armstrong,” paused for a moment in his movements, his eyes on her with something akin to worry,” I thought nobody knows your aliases. And that you vary and hide your style in class. How likely is it then, that someone who owns something you did, knows where to look for more?”

Had asked herself the same questions before, though knew no answer.

“We cannot be sure that the lady’s husband owns something that’s really done by me. Distinguishing art-styles and artists is an art-form of itself. But that the Prof is so stingy with information worries me. I forgot to hide my style during your portrait.”

Wasn’t telling him that sheer abashment had her forget all about it during these hours and that she was sweating bullets ever since. Handed the cashier the money though, Scar and her pushing their cart to the side and filling their backpacks.

“If the guy is bothering you, or…”

One look shutting Scar up, though she felt that he meant it.

“He’s only a bit nosy at the moment, don’t mind that. And even if push came to shove: I can defend myself!”

Scar showing his humour yet again, while putting their cart away and hoisting up the backpack for the walk home.

“Or you’ll let loose Buccaneer.”

Seemed to stop himself short before winking at her, though she shut him up alright when telling him that they’d split the sum for the portrait anyways.

He had to sit down on a park bench when she told him the first offer.

* * *

“So, he’s finally getting the hang of talking?”

Sol laughed, though his eyes searched and then followed the big guy walking up and down the flat for a little while.

“Yeah, he’s getting the hang of it. Still suffers episodes of severe mutism when I’m feeling different, but yeah, he’s working hard on himself.”

Akeem smiled alongside the young man opposite of him, trying not to worry about the tone of voice Buccaneer used while talking on mobile.

He’d been called about half an hour ago, in the middle of watching a movie with Sol and as such, his patience seemed to be thinner than ever. And that meant something, because ever since Scar and he had moved in, the big man was a bundle of nerves. Was basically stretched thin by exams, work, his partner and Olivier’s non-existent sleep-schedule pulling on his edges.

Akeem had apologized for the inconvenience to Buccaneer once, which had just grated on the mans nerves some more, because he only wanted them to feel welcome.

“What movie were you watching?”

Sol smiled, Akeem always amazed at how easily he pulled off the baggie-pants and sweatshirt-style, without looking like an absolute fuckboy.

“Moana. He was a bit unwilling at first, he thought it was another film making cheap jokes about certain cultures, but I think he’s really getting into it now.”

Laughed at that, because while he’d thought that he’d grasped Buccaneer quite well over the time before he’d moved in, he understood the huge man even better now.

“He’s into these kinds of movies I think, the Disney-stuff and such. Liv mentioned something once, about the last unicorn and never letting him watch it, because he cries like a kicked puppy during.”

Sol taking a sip of her drink, Buccaneer passing behind her again on his next lap through the flat, his hand softly touching the others back.

“The last unicorn is not Disney though. But Liv told me the same, that it’s basically a cuddle-movie for him.”

The man grinning, answered by Akeem.

“You utilized it already?”

“When he was at my place for the first time. He’d been almost completely silent before, but he got really talkative during and after the movie.”

Their shared smile turning into a shared and comfortable silence after that, some words Buccaneer was saying into the mobile reaching his ears.

“You may think that, but if you ever…. NO! Why don’t you just take some time and talk to her then? Of _course_ she wants to spite you! Have you ever heard the way you talk about her art?!...You DIDN’T...Dad, please tell me you did not do that!”

Akeem unable to hold back his curiosity, catching the slightly worried look from Sol.

“You know what’s going on?”

Sol shook his head, slicked back and ponytailed hair swinging in tune.

“I know that his Dad tried to reach him this morning, while he was at work, but little more. Though taking a wild guess: That sounds like the type of conversation you have with Philip Armstrong.”

Sounded tired while saying that, the usually so balanced Sol displaying a hint of anger, too.

“You butted heads with his old man? From what I’ve seen up until now, I’d thought him to be rather agreeable, though demanding.”

Sol sighing, with a look making sure that Buccaneer was well out of earshot.

“I’ve not met him officially yet, not with Buck by my side. But I work for the Madame and he’s a regular there. And I overheard him complaining over Olivier and her choice of classes, Buccaneer and the job he’s chosen, Amues refusal to join the family business. You get my drift?”

Akeem nodding solemnly, taking a sip of his lemonade and following the pacing Buccaneer with his eyes.

The big man was walking through the hallway leading to the bedrooms now, pictures hung up on the wall, only few spots still free. There were group pictures of Olivier, Miles and Buccaneer, seeming to be years old, childhood pictures of Olivier and Buccaneer and one of Miles with his mother. The group-photos from the Winter’s Balls over the years hung in a row, outfits getting more and more ridiculous.

And while he was still feeling guilty for invading the trio’s living space, one of them his boyfriend or not, while it still gnawed on him that their neighbours at their former place only tolerated him because of his brother, he felt weirdly at home here. More so than he’d felt at any other place besides his first home, which was rubble on sand now.

Miles and he thrived, having more time to themselves than ever before. It was heavenly to fall asleep next to him each night, was almost godly to wake up next to Miles each morning. He wondered what he’d done that Ishvala blessed him so and took this respite given to him, embracing it fully.

Sol poking him softly, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Smiled apologetically, the other seeming to understand.

“I’d asked if you’re still disappointed with not having passed the alchemist-exam?”

Took a deep breath, though the trouble in his mind, his heart, had softened over the course of the week. Miles love had helped too, his brothers anger over the matter, Olivier’s ranting, Buccaneer’s promise to help with whatever he could.

“A bit yes. I just know that I answered most of the questions right, I’d never be as far as I am with my practical studies if I weren’t as good theoretically. Though I guess they pulled the refugee-card on me, simple as that.”

Sol grunted in disdain, though touched his hand in a gesture of sympathy.

“It’s the military, I’m totally sure that’s why they haven’t let you pass. They want all Alchemists under their control and because of that always intervene with the practitioner exams.”

He narrowed his eyes and half-smiled.

“You seem to know an awful lot about that?”

Sol coughed, looked left and right, like they were in a public space and not an overcrowded apartment.

“The Madame’s nephew is a state alchemist and overheard some talk on the matter. He told her all about how furious the military and the Fuhrer are that the Parliament allowed for the practitioner-alchemist exam to be allowed. And as such, they are bribing those in charge of it, so they can force some of these alchemists to become state alchemists.”

He leaned back on the new chair, bought with what they all called the Winters-Ball-Art-Blood-money, processing this new information.

“So, the state wants me instead?”

Sol wrinkled his nose.

“Seems like it, or they surely would’ve let you take the exam. And so, they maybe faked new rules, you know? Made use of your status as refugee?”

Akeem pressed his mouth into a thin line.

“Yeah, refugee of a region that belonged to Amestris before the war my brother and I fled from, and that was declared an independent state when nothing was left standing.”

The man opposite of him made a face, though managed a half-smile right after.

“Our government sucks ass. I take it you’ll not follow the state alchemist-route?”

He shook his head, the dish-washer pinging and signalling that it was done.

“Not ever. They’d probably try to turn my medical alchemy into something else. Will you help me unload?”

Did not dwell on the bad things, instead forced himself to stand up, to not despair over the difficult situation. He’d talk with Miles when he got back from university and in the meantime, he’d put away dishes and have a good time.

There was little else he could do after all.

And so, after a few minutes of silent working and the squeaking of dishtowels on clean plates, the door to the apartment opened, Olivier and his brother walking in and immediately starting to unpack their backpacks.

“Hey you two, got everything?”

His brother seemed to be in a good mood, sounding almost unnervingly cheerful.

“Yes, and a bit more. I’ll take what belongs into the pantry and put it there?”

Watched Olivier nod at that, still busy with circling her hips and forcing unto them the sounds of her back popping.

“Sure, then I’ll put away what belongs into the fridge.”

All of them working together, Sol and him joining in, almost done when Buccaneer stormed the kitchen, taking Olivier by the shoulders and almost shouting.

With a huff she forced his hands away.

“Dad is coming!”

The blonde narrowed her eyes almost instantly.

“And that’s a reason to crush my shoulders?! And why are you so loud?”

Buccaneer seeming to ring for words, before Sol stepped up to him, forcing him to sit down. His voice level and surprisingly stern.

“Think first and then speak. You talked plenty long with your father after all.”

Scar returning from the pantry, standing in the hallway with his arms crossed, while Sol sat down next to Buccaneer, Olivier leaned against the counter and he sat back down on the chair he’d occupied before.

Buccaneer taking a deep breath before finally speaking up, looking at Olivier.

“Dad’s talked to the university. Something about your degree in economy and that play-time’s over. I tried to talk to him, but he says he’s already on his way here and wants to talk to you. He’s angry!”

And while Akeem would’ve thought every other reaction more likely, Olivier just laughed.

“Is he now threatening me, or what is that?! He should know by now that I can overcome everything he throws at me!”

And before he could say something, ask what this was about exactly, because he only knew bits and pieces, his little brother beat him to it.

“You father still thinks you’re a run-of-the-mill-artist? And what’s that with your other degree?”

To which Olivier did not get a chance to answer, because Buccaneer butted in.

“He’s of the conviction that her art is absolutely ordinary and will never feed her. Which it doesn’t, because it feeds all of us by the way. And he forced her into that thrice-damned economy-degree and now seemingly is not buying the dumb-act anymore!”

Olivier’s nose drawn, her face one of utter distaste and, judging by the look in her eyes, hurt.

“Bad enough that he believed it in the first place!”

At which, much to Akeem’s renewed surprise, Scar spoke up _again_.

“Doesn’t he know that the painting he revealed at the Winter’s Ball was from you?!”

And at that silence fell, shocked silence from all of them, the only one confused his little brother.

Miles had told him afterwards that it was from her, Sol had put two and tow together after subsequent visits to the bar and because she was part of the Madame’s inner circle. Nobody had known besides and nobody had been aware that Scar knew.

Olivier looking like a fish out of water, something in her eyes Akeem could not put his finger on. Heat rushing to her cheeks, her body seemingly folding in on itself. The only thing they could hear footsteps coming up the stairs and a key turning in the door-lock.

His silent hope that this was Miles futile, because only moments later Philip Gargantos Armstrong stood inside of their apartment.

A screaming-match then started, after about half an hour and all of them knowing what was up, being moved to Olivier’s room. Their screaming muffled then, though all of them sat around the dinner table, sans Olivier.

“So, he basically intimidated the university into treating that semester of economy as Olivier’s last chance at a degree? And if she refuses?”

His question more a rhetorical one, asked to put his thoughts in order, because Buccaneer’s and Olivier’s father had been more than thorough in his explanations.

Sol still humoured him though.

“He’s funding the art-department almost exclusively, because Central U pumps most of its money in the alchemy-classes. And when Liv does not get her degree done by the end of the semester, he’ll pull the funding. The art-department would be closed in no time.”

Buccaneer’s fist hitting the table.

“He’s basically forcing her to safe what she loves single-handedly!”

Scar tilted his head in confusion.

“Okay, but what does he gain from her getting that economy-degree? She’s not going to pursue a career with it!”

It was Buccaneer that answered again.

“He wants her to take over the family business, tries tempting her for years now. She _never_ wanted it by the way.”

Sol letting out a breath, only single words reaching them through Olivier’s egg-box-soundproofed door. The last ones sounded suspiciously like swearwords.

“And does one of your other siblings…”

“Cathy and Alex both. She wants to take over the business part, he the charity side. But as always, father isn’t listening. And he hates it when things don’t go according to his plans.”

A mutual sigh shushing over the table now, while the door to Olivier’s room flew open, first Philip Armstrong walking out, his daughter hot on his heels.

“You can come back here when you apologize for being the most immature father in this fucking country! You can come to the ceremony, I’ll throw the bachelor in your face then if you want to!”

It seemed to Akeem that she’d grown during this match, that she was towering over her own father while simultaneously throwing him out. Noticed that they all were staring in amazement.

“Young lady, you should really watch your…”

“OUT! I’m over twenty years old and can _and_ will say fuck whenever I like! So _fucking_ leave!”

Which he did, banging their door behind him in a way eerily like his daughter, who’d not yet emerged from the hallway again.

Akeem only lived with them for a month, but felt like a part of the family, _was_ a part of the family. And he understood that she did not want them to come pick her up, to just let her stand there for a while, unseen.

It was Buccaneer again, that spoke to her, not caring about not seeing her.

“You’re gonna do it? Get the credit you need and finish the economy-bullshit?”

Her voice still sounding so normal, so strong.

“I’m gonna show him!”

The unsaid question, the how, not uttered by any of them.

For years she _just so_ was allowed to stay, had played the system in a manner that had reduced work for her and at the same time was a big finger given to the administration that did not let her drop the subject altogether. And she had no sleeping-cycle to speak off, would have to do a crazy amount of homework and essays to get the credit-points she needed. It seemed almost impossible.

Which seemed to be a cue to Scar, his little brother usually keeping out of situations like that.

“You’ll sleep when I’m at work. When I get back I’ll wake you up and make you breakfast. Whatever you like the best. And then you’ll work your ass off! You’ll go to sleep at a reasonable hour and let the nightly tours be for a while. You’ll manage that for a few weeks!”

Akeem wondering if his brother had truly started to see them all as a family now.

* * *

Waking Akeem was as easy as pressing a kiss to his lips.

Which Miles did, soon learning that shaking the man’s shoulder only stressed him out in the morning, sending him into a frenzy. That calling his name had to be done at the right pitch, or Akeem would practically fall out of the bed and scramble to his feet. So, it was either the beeping of a phone-alarm, or a kiss.

Miles knew what he preferred and judging by Akeem’s sleepy smile, his boyfriend was rather fond of the kissing-option too.

“It’s time to wake up Akeem, or you’ll be late. I’ll shower now.”

Instead of turning around once more, his love searching for his glasses and trying to put the fringe behind his ear. Voice still heavy with sleep.

“Safe me some hot water!”

Miles in his pyjama-pants leaving the room, his roommates already in full swing. Scar was flipping pancakes, looking as fresh as one could after an eight-hour-shift at the Seven Sands, holding true to his promise to help Liv get through her degree. Olivier’s head on the counter in front of the man, sleeping at set times not coming easy to her, though the rather sudden change in roommate helped with that awful habit.

Scar sternly ordered her to bed when he left for work and mercilessly threw her out of it upon returning. Did indeed offer her the breakfast of her choice, due to his work more than proficient.

Miles greeted his ishvalan brother with a raised hand and a curt nod, and patting Olivier on the tousled head in passing.

As an answer he got an inarticulate grown from her and a “blessed morning” from Scar. Buccaneer leaving the bathroom just seconds before he was about to enter, looking refreshed since back in his own bed and a lot calmer than the weeks before.

“Morning Miles, Akeem will go in after you?”

Clapped the big man on the shoulder and smiled at that, before stepping into their bath.

“Morning to you too. Would you knock on our door if he’s not up in ten?”

A nod affirming that before he closed the door, praying that he’d at least get a bit of warm water.

On his way to work a freezing February would greet him, each bit of warmth one could get cherished. And he was getting plenty, even though only a week ago he’d been ready to scream because of their overly full flat. But that evening seven days ago he’d come home to an Olivier sitting huddled in the hallway, the other four, though Sol was not living with them completely, talking to her. Was filled in quickly then and became part of their masterplan.

Scar and Buccaneer had changed rooms, something that relaxed the latter immensely. Scar had offered that up himself, had proposed the temporary time-table for Olivier too. The Ishvalan at first seeming a bit uneasy with the arrangement he’d suggested, before Liv’s troubles with the new schedule had set in. Not a day later Scar the relaxed one and Olivier constantly tired.

Buccaneer made sure that Olivier came home from the library in the afternoons, where Akeem had organized one of the study-cubicles through the use of connections. Miles made sure she went to the library at all after her morning classes, walking her there on the way to his evening classes. Solaris, however they were feeling that day, calling them if Olivier showed up at the bar without them.

The blonde of course not too happy with everything, though the drive to show her father what she was capable of kept her going. And Scar’s pancakes.

“How long do you want to hog the shower?!”

The banging on the bathroom door unmistakably hers.

“One more minute!”

Miles quickly rinsing his hair and wrapping himself in a towel, deciding that a shave could wait one more day, Akeem digging the stubble.

Just when he stepped outside, Olivier pushed herself in and threw the door shut behind her. Miles always wondering how she managed her hair in only a handful of minutes. Went into the bedroom Akeem was just stepping out of, pressing a kiss to his lips in passing and then quickly getting dressed.

Heard the brothers talk through the slightly ajar door, without much preamble and in ishvalan, which he understood better and better.

_“Slept well?”_

_“Yes. How was work?”_

_“The MPs were sitting around again. The lack of activity at night has them suspicious.”_

_“Everything went well last night?”_

_“Had to wrestle the brushes from her hands. Which kind of pancake do you want?”_

_“Blueberries, please.”_

Miles was often grateful that Buccaneer only understood parts of it all at best, so much calmer since sleeping in his own bed again. It would do the man no good to worry about Olivier more, which would undoubtedly happen once he heard of brushes being wrestled from her hands and MPs scouring the city for the suspiciously silent vigilante-artist.

Stepped out of their room dressed and pulling back his hair with an elastic, when Olivier already stepped out of the bathroom with a towel wound around her.

Scar averted his gaze, while Akeem waved a greeting at her casually.

Two days ago, she’d emerged from the bathroom in a still sleepy state, the towel hanging a bit too low and Scar getting an eyeful of things he’d probably known about before, but never seen.

_“Don’t these things hurt?”_

Miles having laughed so loudly, especially after Akeem had, still tired, asked if he meant her boobs or just the piercings, that he’d given away his by now trained understanding of Ishvalan.

Since then Scar averted his eyes every time she left the bath, though always with a small blush to his face.

Two minutes later, pancakes flipped and put on Akeem’s plate, Olivier sat down fully dressed next to him, wet hair French-braided and snatching the plate meant for him.

“Hey!”

“That’s for taking so long with showering!”

His “ew” drowned out by Akeem’s laughter, Olivier still not swallowing the current bite before speaking.

“You got work first thing in the morning, right Miles?”

Buccaneer plopping down next to him, just having gotten ready and as always having needed the longest time for it.

“Yep, we’ll ride the tram together then?”

The big guy nodding, though Liv interjected swiftly.

“Good, I’ve got class first thing this morning, you can drop me off at campus.”

“You need us to walk you to the building again?”

Buccaneers yelp confirming that her aim was still true.

“I told you, I’d left my bag in the art-building! I did not mean to stay!”

All others still smiling to themselves, though not daring to laugh at her art-withdrawal. Miles decided to get things back on track.

“Akeem, your plans for today?”

“I’ve got a job interview at the bookstore in the main street in two hours and work in the afternoon. My turn with cooking tonight, right? Everybody alright with djuvec?”

Nobody speaking up against it and the breakfast-table soon cleared and the dishwasher loaded. Buccaneer, Liv and he grabbed their bags for the day, Akeem went towards the bathroom and Scar towards bed.

Their ride with the tram uneventful, if one excluded Olivier complaining about how Scar got her to go to sleep, simply forcing upon her social conventions. Left the door open when she’d gone to bed and he left for work, just so she could not play music and such.

Miles a bit jealous, because he’d never thought of that.

Saying goodbye to Buccaneer first, who only had to ride two stations to arrive at the North Star Retirement home. And then woke Olivier up when they stopped at the campus, her try to miss her stop through sleeping and his subsequent waking her up met with a glare.

She gave him the finger after exiting the tram, though he only waved and smiled in response.

His stop being Central Cities Central Station, from where he walked through the inner-city, stopping at the Seven Sands for a coffee. The owner, Naeem, greeting him with a smile.

“Hey Miles, the usual?”

Nodded to that, leaning on the counter and looking as a young man did his coffee. Naeem coming over to him, his hair not the usual white anymore, but more silvery with age. Was an important figure in the local Ishvalan community and as such always close to the buzz of things.

Not only liked for his kindness by Miles, but also for how vocal he was about Scar and Akeem being treated unwell in the aftermath of the formers decision and how _that_ was certainly not what Ishvala would want their people to do.

“You heard the good news yet? We got the money together and found an artist willing to paint the walls of our house of prayer! The first since the war!”

All the workers, the ishvalan patrons, smiling when he said this, though they’d certainly heard it before. Still, Miles felt the smile pull on his lips, an easiness sweeping though him, making his heart feel light. Could hardly wait to tell Akeem, wondering if Scar already knew, too.

“Really? That is fantastic! When will the ritual begin?”

Naeem smiling inanely, like a dream had come true.

“When spring-break starts! The priests are already preparing, and families are getting ready to host the artist!”

Miles being handed his coffee then, before leaving with a wave and sipping on the hot drink on his way to the market-hall, not wanting to be late.

Ishvalans and people of ishvalan belief were not allowed to create an image of Ishvala, but it was a common tradition that non-ishvalan artist were hired or asked to create those in their stead. It was regarded as a tradition from the oldest of times, his people with that forced to interact with other people and keeping their minds open and accepting.

And the painting of a house of prayer had not been possible since the Ishvalan war, artists and funding scarce. Not to mention the strain involved with it, the artist not allowed to speak during their work, which often took weeks to complete. The whole community needed too, as the chosen artist was during their time as “Ishvalas brush” not allowed to sleep in the same bed twice, instead hopping families every night.

By day people would sing and chant and watch over the person working on their house of prayer, guests would surely want to come and watch the person work.

And he felt giddy somehow, though only his grandfather had practiced the Ishvalan believes to the fullest, wishing the man could be there and see that times seemed to be changing for the better, little by little.

Miles reaching his work-station not soon after, these happy thoughts putting a spring to his step. Put on the hair-net, greeted the old lady he worked for, stoop with age, and threw on the required apron. Soon vegetables and fruit were set up nicely, the crates seeming lighter today.

The Military Police walking the hall stopping in front of him, speaking like they were bored.

“Papers please.”

Handed them over like he did every morning, all of the MPs knowing full-well that he had real amestrian papers, born here to amestrian parents after all. The chicanery not getting to him as much today, while he set to halving cabbages for the display.

His papers soon back in his hands, though he overheard the MPs talking when they left.

“Heard that there was an Ishvalan at the practitioner-exams?”

“No, did they let the sand-flea through?”

“Course not! Heard from General Grand, he’s the one in the committee for the state-exam, that they found a loophole because of his Ishvalan papers.”

The other replying nonchalantly, while Miles chopped another cabbage in half, his mood dropping.

“Good!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys :D
> 
> here is a new chapter for you, I hope you enjoy it^^  
> I'm not too happy with it, though I am with nothign I write at the moment, alas I'll let you be the judge ;) Know that feel when you have many ideas, no time to write and then, when you finally get some time, everything feels wrong because all the things and ideas are mingling in your head? No? Well, that's how it is at the moment, though I'm trying to work through it^^ so, my rambling aside: Send me prompts and ideas for this fic! What do you want to see?
> 
> And also: happy reading :D

"Only one month left then?"

Buccaneer grinned at Solaris, elated by the notion of soon being done with his communal service, with his studies, too. With the fact that the words were flowing so freely with her now.

"One more, yes, though it'll be sad saying goodbye to the residents. I mean, I didn't enjoy the grief I got from the military for refusing service, but the men and women at the North Star were very nice and some of the last few of mountain tribe heritage left. It feels like I'm leaving a part of me behind."

Solaris hand holding his tighter, her dark eyes so full of compassion he could barely stand it. The happiness he felt not vanishing though, instead amplified.

"There's more of you somewhere, I'm sure! And I bet all the old ladies and gentlemen would be happy if you came and visited them. I'd come with you anytime."

Felt light while walking through the streets with her, her hand so warm that it almost robbed him of his speech.

"You know I would only brag!"

Her words swift, yet he noticed the honest question underneath.

"Either way?"

"Either way!"

A hundred metres spent in silence, while the rounded a corner and a white patch of wall on one of the taller buildings of Central's inner City. Buccaneer feeling the sigh crawling up and letting it out.

"What is it?"

Solaris looking around, probably wondering if she'd missed something.

"It's just that building over there. If these were even remotely normal weeks, Liv would've loved to fill this place with one of her works."

A shoulder bumping into his upper arm, Solaris thick burgundy-coat giving a quiet "thump" upon impact.

"It's hard for her, isn't it? Yesterday at dinner Scar told me in length all about how difficult it is to get her to sleep at night and how much harder waking her up is. He showed me a small bruise, actually."

Buccaneer feeling a laugh bubble up and not even thinking about repressing it, Solaris _"What?!"_ only making it worse.

"It's just," not walking on while trying to catch his breath, tears of laughter stinging his eyes, "You made it sound like she was some kind of unruly child that's refusing bed-time! And the image of Scar daddying her..."

Could not end the sentence, laughter again coming forth. Solaris joining in, the next words she uttered leading him to stare at her though.

"Well, he clearly loves her, so of course he cares for her! And I'd say he's not so much daddying her, but rather...why are you looking at me all shocked now?"

Bewilderment taking over his body, mind and voice.

"He loves her?!"

Spoke loudly, the people passing them in the busy afternoon-streets looking at them, others more used to weird things happening in Central turning the other way.

"I think so, yes. Why are you so surprised? I mean, come on, you were there when they first met! He told her that she's "so beautiful that Ishvala must've formed her in their likeness"!"

"He said that? When?!"

The braid resting on his shoulder pulled by her, demanding his full concentration.

"My dear oaf, he said these words in Ishvalan to her, translated to our collective swooning by one of the other girls! And ever since he's just looking at her like he can't believe that he's met someone like that! Did you never see how pissed off he looks all the time? It's because of Olivier being like she is!"

He shook his head, unbelieving.

"He wanted to be a priest Solaris! Do you really think he thought about such things?"

Solaris shrugging, the long black hair cascading down her parka-clad shoulders shimmering in the light of the frosty Wednesday-afternoon.

"And? He may not admit it, but he's head over heels for her. You told me that he offered to change rooms. Maybe he hoped the spark would fly catch her?"

Buccaneer took Solaris hand tighter then, pulling her forward while a bell chimed in the distance, signifying how late they were. Talked on, though quieter than before.

"So, you really...?"

"Yes! And maybe you'll be shocked by this too, but I think she likes him back!"

These things said by her in a low voice, like she was offering him a secret. Answered by gruff words mixed full of laughter.

"Oh dear, that I know! She's... I mean... I told her to stay away from him, you know?"

Solaris snorted, the cinema finally coming into view in the distance.

"Brother-syndrome?"

Buccaneer swayed his head from side to side, his indecision showing.

"Not only. Scar's acted awful around Miles at first, too, so I was on the lookout. And he wanted to be a priest and as such Liv wanted to keep her distance anyways. Though it's totally clear that this failed spectacularly!"

A black, sleek brow moving more towards it's brother in clear puzzlement.

"Why spectacularly?"

"Well, you know at the Madame's bar you've probably seen Liv being all adventurous, right?", Solaris nodding with a knowing look, which had him continue his tale, "She's not taken up any offer for a date, nor did she offer one, to anybody since knowing him! You remember when that MMA fighter was at the bar?"

Solaris looked to the stone beneath them for a moment, before she seemed to remember.

"Marcel? Martel? Something like that, right? The one they call the snake?"

Buccaneer jabbed his finger in the air.

"That's Liv's favourite fighter. Usually she'd have jumped at the chance to meet her! She'd had offered her soul for a chance to try and woe her!"

She jabbed him in the side with her elbow, full lips smiling up at him disbelievingly.

"Bucc, Olivier asked her for an autograph, but that was it! I saw nothing out of the ordinary that day at all!"

And he repeated these words, though with a softer voice.

" _You saw nothing out of the ordinary that day at all!_ Since Liv knows Scar, and I know her, she's fallen hard! She isn't even able to think about other people that way! Also, and if she asked I never said this: heartbreak-art!"

Solaris pressed her mouth into a thin line, looking at him with raised eyebrows.

"You know my bear, if you'd put the last argument first, I'd have believed you right away!"

He fumbled for words then a little, her brilliant smile always making things so much harder, but caught up to the heart in his throat.

"I'll remember that for next time!"

Smiled at her, as wide as he could, while Akeem and Miles yelled a greeting towards them.

Buccaneer seeing with a slight blush that they were the last ones to arrive. Miles and Akeem leaning on the wall, close together, Scar glowering at them like he usually did and Olivier standing a bit to the side, talking on the phone.

"Sorry we're late, got held up on the way!"

The scoff to his right unmistakably that of his sister, who was sliding her mobile back into the pockets of her jeans.

"Yeah, were probably snogging like teens. Catherine is going to visit us on Sunday."

Miles trying to give him some signs he could not understand, Akeem doing something weird with his face too, though Buccaneer could not interpret it. Scar seemingly neither, voice brooding.

"Something wrong with you face, brother?"

The two immediately stopping their nonsense, though Buccaneer had a more pressing question for Olivier anyways.

"Is she going to bring the rat?"

Scar perked up, while Akeem and Solaris looked puzzled.

"Wait, Catherine is the youngest, right? She owns a rat?"

Olivier turning to him, her arms folded in front of her chest, though her voice not nearly as hostile as usually. Must be the sleep-depravation and all the work, Buccaneer thought.

"It's not a rat, it's one of those naked dogs. And his name is Chico and he's very nice, so cut it Bucky!"

Miles smile breaking what was soon to be a fight up, together with his exclamation.

"How about we go inside guys?"

* * *

"Would you go to the toilet with me?"

Scar looked up at him like he'd grown a second head.

"Are you afraid to go alone?"

Akeem knew very well that people thought his brother to be the stern and strict one of the two. That Scar set the beat their lives danced to. Oh, how he'd loved to show them they were wrong, his booted foot pressing increasingly hard on his brothers.

Scar relented quickly, through everything seemingly never having forgot the times his brother had won their play-fighting.

"Ok, ok, you win! I'm going with you!"

Olivier seated next to Scar snickered at that, thrown a glowering look by her brother. The blonde soon distracted, because Miles asked her if she'd help him get the snacks. Akeem smiling though, while Scar followed him to the walkway the toilets were located, happy that their plan was working so well.

Miles and he had dawdled on their way here together with Olivier and his brother, so that soon a remarkable distance had been between them. The two impatient souls walking far in front of them, while they could talk unheard and uninterrupted. Had devised a plan to set things in motion, both aware of what Olivier and Scar were still denying to feel and fed up with it.

The hallway leading to the toilets already good enough for Akeem, who turned to his brother, switching to Ishvalan.

_“You really like Olivier, right?”_

Mourned a little that he’d already turned his mobile off for the movie, because the face his brother made was priceless. Scar was gaping like a fish, puffing his cheeks out and then exhaling again, all the while a blush creeping over his dark cheeks.

When his brother found his voice again, it was the teeniest bit squeaky.

_“She’s proven herself to be a good friend!”_

Years ago, Akeem would’ve let up now, thinking his brother too virtuous to bend the truth like that. Knew better now and folded his arms in front of his chest, leaning against the wall.

_“And that’s all she is to you? Come on brother, I’ve known since you were born, you can’t lie to me!”_

And with something he understood to be a check for unwanted ears, Scar looking up and down the hallway carefully, his little brother leaned in, voice glum.

 _“She does not like me like that brother, I’m only a friend to her. There is nothing I can do. And I wouldn’t even know_ what _to do.”_

Scar seemed truly crestfallen to him, his face brooding at first appearance, though there was a heaviness to he mans eyes, missing light speaking of a deep sadness.

His brother had pursued the goal of becoming a priest to Ishvala, had last been interested in girls when still a teenage-boy. And since the war Scar had seemingly not even thought about the other sex, of his own, in any kind of romantic manner. Could understand his own feelings only after a lot of self-reflection Akeem was sure, was not well-versed in the world of flirting.

And seemingly could not read the signs he was getting or interpreted them wrong.

Akeem smiled at his brother, tried to convey the warmth he felt with his eyes, locked on Scars. His voice level, earnest.

_“I wouldn’t be so sure of that brother, I think she likes you too. Ask her out maybe, go somewhere with her, alone.”_

His brother taken aback, his voice almost quiet.

_“What is there for her to like about me? And where would I even take her?”_

Akeem extending his hand, firmly settling it on his brother’s shoulder, squeezing.

_“You are wonderful to her, I don’t think that it went unnoticed. And you know her so well already, I daresay much better than I do! You’ll figure something out. Just,” sighed a little, smiling, “be brave and let Ishvala lead you!”_

Scar smiled, not wide nor, toothy, but honest none the less.

_“You know brother, you’re a lot like father.”_

_“And your eyes are still like mothers. Now let’s go back to the others, they’re probably wondering where we are.”_

Walked side by side with his brother, back towards the cinema hall, a hand on Scars back, his own steps feeling light. Was too preoccupied by the fulness of his heart, to ask himself if Miles had the same kind of luck with Olivier.

Simply was happy how close he still felt to his brother.

* * *

“No Miles! I’ve done all my homework and studies, I even finished that damned presentation _and_ picked out an outfit! Scar said I have the weekend off!”

Miles rubbed the back of his head, feeling a smile pull at his lips though trying his hardest to supress it.

“Olivier,” was desperately trying to sound patient, “I was merely suggesting that we go to the campus after the movie, because the kids from Central Middle School are showing their play there tonight. I promise you: No studying this weekend!”

Olivier huffed still, though turned her narrowed eyes towards the long line in front of them.

“That we can do. The theatre-kids are always a fun bunch to watch. Are the others coming too?”

Miles nodded, albeit knowing that Olivier was devouring the popcorn-machine with her eyes instead of looking at him.

“Akeem is already super excited, Buccaneer will come too, but Solaris excused herself.”

“Work tonight?”

Olivier’s eyes were now hanging on the hot cheese bubbling near the nachos.

“Yup, though I guess we’ll see her later anyways. No big tour of our group complete without a trip to the Madame after all!”

The blonde next to him chuckling, while their turn to order neared.

“Is Scar coming too?”

Miles pursing his lips for a moment, quirking a smile at how easy everything seemed to fall into place this evening.

“He was still undecided when we asked him this morning. Wanted to know what you’d do.”

The only answer Miles got to that silence, Olivier biting her lips while she seemed to count how many people were still between them and overpriced snacks.

He tried his hand at being casual.

“What’s that with you and Scar, by the way?”

She waved her hand dismissively, not even looking at him.

“Yesterday? I just told him that he’d make a good scholar of all things Ishvalan. He knows so much about the culture and history and traditions, everything that’s important for when the next generation needs to be taught.”

Miles let the smile come now, though immediately felt her gaze upon him, eyes narrowing yet again.

“What?”

Her tone dangerous, though he knew that she was distracted, blue eyes flickering back towards the menu hanging over the counter.

“That’s not exactly what I meant with my question. But you really told him that?”

She shrugged, while mouthing the names of several sweets, shifting her weight.

“Better when the next generations of Ishvalans is taught by one of their own, don’t you think? Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for the mingling of cultures, but you don’t see Ishvalans or Drachmans going around teaching amestrian culture to people, so.”

Which he did not think to be a bad opinion, but was also impressed by her ability to seemingly misinterpret his question. Decided on being blunt them, only one couple in front of them now, a clear conversation not to be had with Olivier once she entered eating-mode.

“You love Scar, don’t you?”

Olivier’s eyes now fully on him, looking like a deer’s when hit by headlights. Miles ready for her to jump him and beat him up, to scream and yell and berate him for even thinking something like that. Instead she blinked slowly, once, twice, before she took a deep breath.

“He knows that the one picture, you _know_ which one, was done by me. And he’s never talked to me about it. So, I really don’t think he cares as much as I do.”

Miles knew that she knew that he knew, her not even denying it was proof enough. They were friends for such a long time now, roommates, understood the other too well. He’d caught on swiftly when she lost her heart to the scarred man. And now he caught equally as swiftly that over the past few months she’d developed the deep-seated fear to be rejected by Scar. First because the man had wanted to become a priest, now because she thought that he knew and did not care about her feelings at all.

And Miles just knew that nothing was further from the truth.

“He’s almost single-handedly making sure that you get your degree, Liv!”

“Please, he just wants to repay us for letting him stay!”

Miles raising his eyebrows as far as they would go, however stern Olivier was looking at him.

“He talks about nothing but you when you are away!”

“Miles, that’s called slandering.”

The guy at the counter was looking from one to the other, though Miles payed him little mind, too set on driving his argument home.

“He’s just silent because he’s got no idea how flirting works Liv! And you’re so self-assured all the time, he probably just doesn’t know how to approach you.”

“So now it’s _my_ fault?”

“I did not say that!”

The young man coughed discreetly, Miles already ready to ask him to just wait a few more moments, when Olivier turned to the man, ordering a bunch of things instead of arguing. Then turning back towards him, to do just that.

“Then what do you want me to do?”

Miles felt frustrated enough to scream.

“Talk to him! Ask him out, I don’t know! All I know is that you two are infuriating with your but-the-other-doesn’t-love-me-thing!”

He watched Olivier pay in silence, her lush lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowed and an air of anger radiating from her. Was pissed too, at her way of disregarding his arguments, her own emotions. Why couldn’t she just talk about things with Scar? She’d always been able to with any other person!

Something occurring to Miles, his anger evaporating, his voice turning soft.

“He’s not just a passing fancy to you, right? You really want that to work?”

The employee handed her over the freshly bought snacks, though Miles could see in the way she held herself that he’d hit a nerve. Her shoulders slumped, her head hanging low, long hair shielding her face from view. Olivier’s voice almost tiny while she gathered most of the food in her arms, Miles taking the rest.

“I’ve never felt like this before. Does it always hurt so much, does…?”

Miles leading her to a small ledge to the side, taking the things from her hands and cutting through her words, engulfing her in a tight hug.

Olivier did not seem teary to him, or like she’d lost her will to fight, but tired. Just worn out and awfully tired.

“Talk to him. You’re the bravest of us all, so talk to him and I promise you, it will stop hurting then.”

Was ready for when she freed herself from his arms, amazed that she’d even allowed him to hug her for so many moments. Her face having changed to her usual fight-me-one, the smallest of smirks playing along her lips.

“I should really get a grip, huh? Or there’ll be no balls left in our apartment!”

Groaned at the stale joke, though gathered a good portion of the snacks again, looking at the masses in bewilderment while walking towards their room with her.

“Why did you buy so much by the way? Who’ll eat all of this?”

She threw him a dark look.

“Scar banned me from eating junk during the week, so that was my chance!”

Miles laughed.

“I’m not holding back your hair when you throw up!”

* * *

“Oh my, are they at it, _too_?!”

Scar could not say that he was the least bit comfortable at the moment, not since to his left, Akeem seated there, a contest had begun, its goal to find out who could devour the others face fastest. At the moment, it looked like Miles was winning.

Olivier leaning over to watch, the movie in front of them forgotten.

“Since the trailers.”

The blonde huffed.

“At least _my_ brother had the decency to wait until the movie got romantic!”

Scar taking that as a cue to lean over and truly saw Buccaneers mighty back, Solaris completely hidden by the mans form. Though the sounds were unmistakable.

White spots on dark hair gave him pause.

“Did you throw popcorn at Buccaneer?”

Olivier was not as interested in whispering as him apparently, offering him the bucket with the popcorn and shaking it noisily.

“You should try too, it feels like retribution.”

He dug his hand in after a few moments of hesitation, though only to eat a bit of it.

When did he last have popcorn? He could hardly remember. His hometown did not have a cinema, though one of the bigger cities to the west had had one. To their town a man with a beamer had come regularly though, throwing movies onto the wall of the community centre. And once, the memory coming back slowly with the taste of sugar spreading through his mouth, his mother had bought the right kernels at the market and made them popcorn at home. He’d taken it with him, not sure if Akeem had been there, had shared it with the other kids.

A soft touch to his shoulder pulling him out of his reverie.

“Is everything alright?”

Her ability to whisper almost shocking, though her face was hard to read in the darkness of the room, only sporadically illuminated by the movie playing. Scar fought against the mesmerising image, aware that she still wanted an answer.

“Yes, everything’s alright. I just remembered something.”

Turned away again, seeing her do the same out of the corner of his eye. Had a hard time keeping himself from staring at her anyways since Akeem had talked to him, so many things Scar thought he’d under control suddenly feeling open and raw again. His brother may have assured him that Olivier liked him a lot, that he should just go for it and ask her out, but the nagging doubts that did not put to rest.

His own community, the people he’d thought to love him as he was, had declared him a low-life since he’d said no to becoming a priest. Had all but abandoned him, looked at him sideways when he visited the house of prayer and made the gestures commonly thought to protect against the evil eye. Since then he was still working in the Seven Sands, the owner Naeem understanding his choice, always having been among those to see modern priesthood critically anyways.

But Scar felt like he had nothing to show for, only a job that he knew to not be his passion and little else. Yes, he knew a lot about Ishval, its traditions and customs, its history, but that meant very little as the land itself was razed to the ground. And even if he truly went to college, what would she want with a man just starting his studies?

Olivier on the other hand was so much more self-assured than him, was so diligently working on getting her bachelor and fighting through all of these odds just to spite her father. Scar often wondering what she could achieve if she did something out of true conviction, chiding himself instantly. He’d seen her art so often by now, knew that it was her passion, that she put heart and soul into it.

His brothers back smashing into his shoulder, the sound of snogging getting louder.

“Ugh.”

Wordlessly the popcorn-bucket appeared in his vision again, this time a fistful grabbed and used like Olivier intended him to.

Scar knew that he had good aim, made ample use of it too, two pairs of red eyes soon locking onto him and then backing up a bit again, so that Miles and his brother were kissing on their seats, not on his too.

“It’s dreadful.”

Her voice a whisper, though full of faux-disdain.

“You mean the movie or these two couples?”

Scar had not seen Solaris since the beginning of the movie, slowly starting to wonder if Buccaneer was maybe just _acting_ like he had a partner to kiss.

“Both! Let’s go somewhere else!”

Nervousness surging through him when she just grabbed his wrist and pulled him through the rows of chairs, not even bothering to say sorry after deliberately hitting her brother over the head with a well-placed elbow.

The air outside the cinema cool, the brightness stinging his eyes. And not seconds later, before he could even start to let the nervousness of being completely alone with her course through him, her smile halted his thoughts.

“Have you ever seen school-theatre?”

* * *

It had been Akeem’s idea to gift her a pair of good headphones, so she would not blast her music at he highest volume while she painted.

And it worked remarkably well, Olivier putting on the big white headphones, wirelessly connected to her phone. Was dancing and swaying while painting, to a beat Scar could not hear. Had watched her over the edge of his book when he dared to, their shared evening ending in her room.

He’d asked her after a truly abysmal, yet fun, play, what she missed doing the most since forced to study by him. Olivier’s answer clear before she’d even said it.

They’d left the cinema together, had went over to the campus in an easy silence at first, soon broken by shared bitching over snogging brothers. Their talks through the whole evening covering nothing truly important, yet still fun to him. It all felt increasingly normal with every minute that passed, his own inhibitions lessening.

They’d watched the pupils play, Scar learning that Olivier’s brother Alex had been part of the theatre-group back in the day. He in turn had shared a few childhood-stories from Akeem and him, his heart beating faster when she seemed to soak that up, smiling at the antics of a younger him he could barely remember.

And after the play was over, he’d asked her if they should go to the Madame’s bar now, the others surely there by now. Olivier had hesitated, he’d asked her what she truly wanted and a ride with the tram later they’d stood at her apartment, _their_ apartment, headphones donned and book picked up.

Scar sure that this counted as the most boring Friday-afternoon ever, but did not want it any other way. Wasn’t sure if Akeem would count what they’d done together as a date, as little to no touching had taken place, nor any heavy talk. But he still felt happy, weirdly normal, a feeling he wanted to hold on to.

Had at one point, the others still not back, put his book to the side and turned around to sleep. The light not bothering him at all, nor the quiet sounds of Olivier’s movements. And even though he’d always been a fitful sleeper at best, he slipped into a deep slumber easily that night.

Woken from it though, when a heavy weight landed on him.

The sky had darkened, and the lights turned off in the room, the sounds of Olivier’s dancing had vanished. A smell hitting him though, all too familiar.

The off-brand Ice-body wash had become his favourite to use, Olivier and him always sharing the bottle. And he felt just like an immovable ice-block as the blonde was seemingly snuggling up to him deliberately, while he was desperately trying not to move, or better yet: vanish into the mattress.

“Olivier?”

Scar’s whisper barely hearable, though there was no reaction from her when he repeated it, louder this time.

“Olivier!”

He craned his neck to get a good look at the clock on his phone, understanding it all when he read the little glowing numbers.

_It was five in the morning._

Olivier was the kind of person that did everything to exhaustion, today being no exception. She must’ve painted so long until she couldn’t stand anymore, was falling asleep upright, not unlikely with the hours she was awake now _and_ the workload of the last few weeks.

She must’ve climbed into his bed in her tiredness, not even noticing that he was sleeping in it.

His heart clenching still though, goosebumps rising all over his body when she practically moulded into his side. Scar not daring to move a muscle, lest he wake her up, though soon relaxing a fraction when soft snoring reached his ears.

Olivier’s skin was warmer than he’d expected, the sounds she made soft, more quiet than anything she did by day. His eyes getting used to the darkness, taking in her features, so relaxed and peaceful that he had a hard time believing that it was truly her. A sleepy movement having her knee connect with his hip, sending a surge of pain through him.

That was Olivier alright.

A thought shooting through his head, pain subsiding, when happiness bubbled up inside of him. It would be wrong to wake her, exhausted as she was. He did not have the heart to push her away, to get up and carry her over to her bed. Did not want to wake her, simple as that, it having _nothing_ to do with how nice, though foreign, her body felt pressed against his.

Stayed still, tried to relax and find slumber again, which proved elusive.

Instead thought about the words of his brother again, that Olivier truly seemed to like him. Scar almost able to believe it after this day together, many other instances coming to mind too, more with each minute that passed in the darkness.

Wondered if he could work up the nerve to just ask her out, to take the chance and hope for the best.

Scar startled the next morning, waking up to sunlight coming in through half-closed blinds, not sure when he’d fallen asleep again. The bed next to him empty, though the covers were rustled, the sheets still warm. Her smell lingering.

When he stepped into the kitchen with bare feet and a slightly flushed face, all others up already, he spotted Olivier looking hurriedly away upon eye-contact, a red tint to her face.

Gladness surging through him at the knowledge that it hadn’t been a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that everythings so LivScar heavy atm^^


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Throws in new chapter like a handgreande and runs*

"You're _late_! Where were you?!"

People never thought that his big brother could be accusing or judgemental, and yet here he sat, a bunch of people turning towards them in the lecture-hall he so narrowly had managed to slip into.

Did not answer immediately, instead situating himself first, sash and the robes for special occasions pulled straight, one of his hands trying to smooth out his hair to little avail. An elbow meeting his side with plenty of force, reminding him of the pending question.

"Got her a gift for afterwards, when she’s kicked their asses. Took a bit longer than expected."

Akeem harrumphed at this seemingly unsatisfying answer, while Scar settled himself further, people turning back around again. Greeted the others with a wave, having seen nobody since leaving for work at the bakery in the middle of the night, except for a still snoring Olivier.

The room growing quiet all around them, murmurs dying down, when the next to hold their final presentation stepped forwards. The data-stick finding its place, people looking at her, most with narrowed and expectant eyes.

Olivier had not cared about her economy-degree in the slightest, it being a necessity her father had called on. Though as the man had haggled with the university, in something Scar perceived as insidious in large parts, he now basically forced her to go through with this hated degree, or she’d lose the classes her heart really hinged on: Art. And as such, she'd been able to spent little time with her true passion, instead forced to constantly study and prepare to make sure that she got her bachelor this year.

Which she would, Scar had little doubt about it.

He’d read all her essays, her notes and basically everything else she’d produced in the last hectic weeks. Had pointed out spelling-mistakes to her, had typed texts for her when Olivier’s hands had been cramping too much from writing, ink smudged where she’d brushed over it in her hurry. But through left-handedness and a Professor who was iffy about extra-credit aside, she’d done her utmost to pass.

The blonde stepping in front of the class, standing tall, looking sharp in the black pantsuit, sleeves folded up to the elbows. A touch of make-up on her face, tasteful, Catherine sitting several seats to his right surely responsible for this. Still felt proud that Olivier had asked him on advice for what to wear, not Miles nor Buccaneer, even if he'd not been able to re-check the outfit yesterday, as they had a hard time looking at each other since she'd crawled into the bed he'd been sleeping in.

It had been due to tiredness of course, nothing more, but it still let embarrassment surge through him, guilt at how nice he'd found sleeping so tightly with her was. Would still...

With a button press her presentation popped up for all to see, the topic sending a gasp through the packed hall and his mind reeling.

"Why Capitalism is the ultimate foe of the peaceful world: A deconstruction of the term and practices of Capitalism and how we as a society can leave it behind"

He'd not known the topic of her presentation, as she’d told him two days ago that it was a secret. Had smiled and heck, he should’ve expected something like that!

Swallowed hard, heard Akeem curse next to him, which was nothing when compared to the words Sol threw through the room. Catherine slapped her own forehead, so hard that the sound resonated. Only Buccaneer was cheering and whistling, prompting the hall to turn and not caring in the slightest.

"Wohooo! Tell them!"

Olivier still standing there, no cards nor a tablet, only the little remote for the beamer in hand. Looking serene, ready, calm.

Scar felt his racing pulse die down, turn back to normal again. Leaned forwards in his seat instead, smile coming to his face unbidden. It became clear to him that she’d prepared, that this wasn’t a spur of the moment topic-choice, nor a big fuck you. This was her, purely Olivier, getting that degree on her own terms.

Through the hall she made eye-contact with him. The nod of his head, the silent “You show them!” clear to her it seemed. With a slight smile she started to talk, the formerly murmuring-again room falling quiet.

And with amazement Scar watched her give the presentation, how she presented her points and possible counterarguments. Was stunning, not overly sweet, though without hostility too. When a few young men tried to interject, she caught them easily, with a stern look and by sliding to the next page, countering what they just wanted to bring up.

The hall quiet, all listening intently and caught by her voice, her demeanour. So much so, that when she finished there was silence first, thick and holding, as people did not seem to notice that she’d finished, were waiting for more.

And Scar applauded first then, the whole room joining in, stunned stupor coming to an end. Buccaneer whistled.

Seeming almost at a loss for words, what he supposed to be her Professor on the subject stood up, with meek gesture and even meeker voice, doing what Scar knew had been done after each and every presentation of the day.

"Who of those in attendance would consider the thesis of Miss Armstrong proven?"

The vast majority of hands went up in front and next to him, even some of the standard military men in attendance raising their palm. The silenced young men were the first to have their hands in the air.

The Professor stuttered on.

"Well, uh, this seems, yes, this seems to be a clear majority. Miss Armstrong, your grade will be submitted to you in the next few days, but you have, uh, with certainty I think, passed."

The man's call for the next person to present was drowned out by another round of applause mostly, though the person in question already walked up front, working on setting things up. Olivier momentarily lost in the crowd to him, his search close to frantic, when she just like that appeared next to him, plopping down on the lone free seat.

"Shit, I'm dying in this thing!"

Unceremoniously got rid of her blazer and popped the first few buttons of the white blouse she wore, offering him a good dose of cleavage.

Scar blushed.

"That was amazing Liv!"

"Incredible, I loved it!"

Catherine’s voice joining in on the chorus of praise, full of humour.

"One could almost believe that you started to care about your degree, Olive!"

Catherine was the youngest, that much he'd known before she'd come to visit them last weekend. Was fourteen, drove through the city either alone in the tram or, when her father was in a bad mood and wanted to "punish" her, was driven around by a chauffeur.

Scar had expected a sweet girl judging from what he'd heard about her, but instead had gotten a teen in a worn pair of jeans and a washed-out shirt, with sandals on her feet and a small dog in her arms. Hair pulled back into a leisurely ponytail, face devoid of make-up. One curl standing up above the rest of her hair, escaping the hair-clip four times during the first hour of her visit alone.

Quickly he’d deduced that she was a lot like Olivier, if truly a bit sweeter, though somehow managed to be the worlds most snarky teen at the same time.

“Thanks Cathy, even though no, it still interests me little more than it has to. What’s the plan for when we’re done here?”

All of them had shovelled the afternoon free, were ready to throw a party for her. Sol and Buccaneer had set everything up with Christmas bar, Akeem and Miles had planned to get her something to eat before, with coercing him into cooking her favourite meal. Maybe he’d manage to look at her then.

Miles the one chirping up first, filling her in.

“We’ll go home first, get a bite to eat. Also, I bet you wanna change outfit, don’t you?”

Her shouted “Fuck Yes!” making them all chuckle.

People shushed them then and in something as close to silence as their little family could get, they watched the other presentations.

* * *

“Oh god, this smells so _good_!”

Sol pushing his mouth shut with a less than gentle hand, laughing a little.

“Gosh, you idiot! Close your mouth before you drown in your own spit!”

Buccaneer felt that his heart wasn’t in it.

His love was weird today, somewhat distracted, mobile checked even more often than usual. And while yes, he was seriously pinning to get some of those pancakes Scar was whipping up, Buccaneer was also set on the fact that as girl of the day, Olivier would get the first batch.

Would probably be drowning right now too, if she weren’t in her room to change.

“He always did that during breakfast, it was disgusting!”

His littlest sister eyeing him from the other side of the table, eyeing _them_. He knew Cathy wasn’t opposed to his relationship, even liked Sol a whole lot. Yet, Cathy too was weird today, if only a little. Mostly pouty probably, for it was clear that during the main-part of todays celebration, the trip to Christmas bar, she wouldn’t come with them.

“And you always put your dog on the table and let it eat there, which _I_ think is disgusting, so we’re even!”

Blue eyes turning into slits, her anger more silent than Olivier’s, but a thousand times more concentrated.

“You got anything negative to say about Colonel Bark?!”

Scar looking over to them from the oven, Miles and Akeem from their vantage point on the couch. The air thick suddenly, Buccaneer aware that he was on thin ice. When people asked who was scarier, Olivier or Catherine, he knew what to say.

“Nothing at all sis.”

Cathy still pouty it seemed, not convinced by his words, standing up and gathering the little naked dog in her arms. At least she put a small sweater on him today.

“I’ll see what takes Olivier so long!”

Gone just like that, door rattling in its hinges in a way not even Olivier managed to produce. Scar still looking at him, as well as Miles and Akeem. Sol the one speaking up though, with one eye again checking his mobile.

“Catherine is moody today, huh? Puberty hitting full force?”

Buccaneer hoped that he was sly when taking Sol’s hand, wondering what was up with him, if he could maybe help. Instead, with the many people listening he brought the others up to speed about the current going ons of the Armstrong-Family.

“Dad found out that Cathy does not want to go into arts or design and is instead dead-set on doing all it takes to work in his business. He’s not happy and she’s neither, about him being all salty about it that is.”

Akeem seemed bewildered.

“But shouldn’t he be happy that at least one of you lot wants to take over the family business?!”

Miles putting a hand on his boyfriends’ shoulder at that, with a look that clearly said “ _you got a lot to learn_ ”.

The words Buccaneer now uttered said so often already, that he wished he would get a hundred cenz each time he said them. He would be a rich man then.

“Dad wants Olivier to take over the family business, because she’s the oldest.”

Scar’s voiced confused, even though he wasn’t looking at them while talking. Instead a pancake flying through the air artistically caught in the pan sizzling.

“But Olivier doesn’t want that?! And Catherine wants it, so I don’t get his problem?”

And Sol, still holding his hand, though fidgety, spoke of what Buccaneer knew to be true.

“Mr. Armstrong has been to the bar several times when I was working and just,” paused for a while, probably swallowed an insult or a curse, because he knew that his father had misgendered Sol once or twice, oblivious to others as he was, “I guess he wants things to go his way and his way only. I mean, we all know he doesn’t give Olivier credit for her artistic skill.”

Tuned in, knew that Sol wasn’t malicious in her critique, but completely right. His father had a long way to go and while Buccaneer was sure that he would eventually get on it, his father was making things difficult for all of his children in the meantime.

“Dad can’t believe that Liv has grown into an incredible artist. And he doesn’t seem to notice Cathy’s incredible will either, or her ability to plan and ready things, to see multiple layer of problems at once.”

A sigh shared by all of them at that, not completely gone when the door to Olivier’s and Scar’s bedroom opened again, Cathy walking out of it, Olivier right behind her. Hair pulled into a high ponytail, looking silky, clearly the work of his youngest sister. As seemed to be the dress thrust upon Olivier’s body, not too revealing, with a straight neckline and a skirt close to her knees, but still.

“ _Fuck_ , it smells heavenly in here!”

Liv on a chair in seconds, looking towards the still pancake-flipping Scar with an expectant gaze.

A laugh running through him at that, though in that moment Sol’s phone buzzed once more and her hand squeezed his.

Buccaneer did not want to leave their little crew now, Sol seeming unaimable to anyways. Yet, he still wanted to talk to his partner, desperately so, wanting to find out what the matter was, if he could help. He rummaged through his pockets with his free hand, procuring his phone. Opened the google search bar, Sol’s eyes on him, curious.

“Hey, what are you…”

Shoved his phone over when he was done awkward-typing them a message.

_What’s bothering you?_

Sol took the invitation, typing while the others all around them chatted, not heeding their typing around on his phone any mind.

_It’s nothing_

_Do you maybe need a binder-break?_

_It’s not that. Christmas isn’t at the bar today, but they want me to work_

_I’d say what’s the matter as we’re going there anyways, but I guess that would be dumb?_

_They want me to work the bar tonight. The fill-in for the boss says no Sol_

Buccaneer taking a few moments to think about a reply, anger welling up inside of him.

Madame Christmas was more than just okay with Sol being genderfluid, gave them the chance to work different positions, considering how they felt each day. As such, his love never worked the bar when they felt like Sol, never did the heavy lifting when feeling like Solaris. But with Christmas not there tonight and a clearly insensitive fill-in trying to whip up a schedule…

_Are you set to work today?_

_No. Friday is free when I have to go Saturdays_

_Then say you can’t come and let it be_

_But the party???_

_I’ll find a way_

Nodded at his love, smiled warmly and held their hand tighter, fingers interlacing. Dark eyes captivating him, Buccaneer taken with them for a moment, the hope in Sol’s eyes, before looking to his sister.

His oldest sister, who was still looking expectantly at Scar, so she could get pancakes, the man turning and catching her gaze. _Both_ blushing.

And thinking that staying away from the bar would be child’s-play, compared to getting those two to _ever_ talk about their feelings.

* * *

“I have things for her to sleep in and a spare toothbrush too, so don’t worry.”

The others were gesturing at her to hurry up a little, the tram set to come in the next minute, yet she took her time, knew how anxious her mother could be.

 _“Haven’t you told me something about the bar tonight dear? I mean, the Madame wouldn’t give her any alcohol, but I think Cathy to be a_ tad _too young, you know?”_

She walked around a little, the trams lights not yet in sight, though the sight of an urgently waving Miles, while Akeem was trying to take care of the gash on his forehead, was rather funny. She’d told him that he was too tall for the rack on the playground.

“Don’t worry Mom, we’ve changed plans. We’re going to the Escape Room near the west mall. It’s suited for her age and we called in ahead, so they have enough room for all of us. And nothing can happen when we have five scary guys with us, so don’t worry.”

_“Phew, like you aren’t the most dangerous of them all. But have fun dear, I love you!”_

“Love you too Mom! See you tomorrow, I’ll bring Cathy over!”

Closed the call, pocketed her phone and walked over to the rest of the bunch, the tram only now rolling in.

“You almost missed it!”

Looked with raised eyebrows at Miles, who’s head was still dabbed at by Akeem. He’d tried to prove that he still knew some of the things from the childhood gymnastic courses he’d went to. Of course not anticipating that the rack for children was too low, his had having scrapped over the playgrounds ground nastily.

Buccaneer had simply used the slide and left it at that, much to Sol’s joy.

“Stop whining Miles, get in!”

Shoved him, Akeem laughing and Miles too, even though he tried to act indignant. All of them finding a place to stand, the tram still packed at this time, though Olivier noted how careful all of them were to keep Cathy close to them. Watched as Scar scooted over a little bit, to make room for her, when their gazes met.

She felt a bit of heat rush to her cheeks, though fought it down, so done with the blushing and feeling embarrassed.

Had she climbed into his bed at night? Hell yes! She’d been dead-tired and not noticing things properly and honestly had thought that he was an oversized pillow the moment she’d cuddled up to him. And she’d been shocked come morning, her arms wound around him, nose buried into the crock of his neck. His own hand on her back, their legs tangled.

Had no way of knowing then, if he’d even noticed her slipping in. As such had wiggled free of his embrace, desperately trying not to think about how good he smelled, or how warm he was. How the edge of his scar looked tough and soft at the same time, that she wanted to run her finger alongside it, feel the texture, tell him that it was okay, that he was still the most beautiful man she’d ever met.

And instead of letting herself be embarrassed further by her flashback, the tram came to a halt, though their station was still a few stops away. Instead blinked at Scar, smiled when he had to take a step back, revelling in the colour ghosting over his cheeks.

At least he was more embarrassed then she was.

Scar then drawn into a conversation Miles, Akeem and Buccaneer were having, while Sol sidled closer to her. Starting to whisper-talk right away, refreshingly not one to beat around the bush.

“Olivier, I wanted to thank you for being so understanding with the whole bar-situation. I know you were looking forward to it and just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Smiled at Sol, at the moment not even having thought much about it. A friend of hers had needed an out from a shitty situation and she’d been able to help. Only when they’d devoured all the pancakes, had been on their merry way, it had occurred to her how big of a thing this whole situation must’ve been for Sol.

“Don’t worry yourself, while I like the bar, it’s more than just nice to try something else for a change. Though I’m glad you talked the others out of the roller rink. This would’ve ended in the hospital!”

A smile thrown her way, wide and honest and warming her to the core. Scar’s eyes on her, she felt them, when she returned it with one of her own.

“Believe me, Buccaneer and I’ve been Ice Skating and just… _no_ , you know?”

Laughed both, soon mugged by Cathy, asking them all kinds of question about the Escape Room they were going to, few of which either of them could answer.

Akeem had nearly thrown his mobile into the air when finding the place online and had quickly called to book the free slot shown on their online-schedule. Miles had meanwhile gotten them all in their shoes and jackets, getting money from the place they hid what she’d made with selling the painting unknowingly to her own family. Somewhat pleased with the notion that her Dad was basically paying for a fun activity they did to celebrate a degree she’d not wanted to have.

Thoughts cut short when their station approached, the night-air cool and crisp, coats drawn tighter and the smell of the tram-cart quickly forgotten. Instead another room entered, a cellar, in which Miles and Akeem talked to the clerk, while they waited.

The talk taking longer than she would’ve thought, soon Sol and Buccaneer apparently needed to set up the whole deal too, which left her with Cathy and Scar.

Before she could start a conversation, Scar still so obviously trying to pet Cathy’s dog and holding back for some reason, the guys were suddenly back. Buccaneer speaking up, with all the authority he could put into his voice, even though she knew him long enough. He was hiding something.

“Okay, we have to split up for this room, one team of two needed, so I guess we draw straws. There’re two short ones in my fist and who gets them has to go to the other room. Each team has to solve puzzles and we’ll be reunited for the last bit when we opened a certain lock each!”

Held out his overly large fist to her, a bunch of pink straws in it.

“I want to draw first!”

Cathy’s enthusiasm not unexpected, though Buccaneer’s sudden ability to withstand their little sisters charms surprising.

“Olivier goes first today, because, uhm… we celebrate her awesome presentation.”

Made a face at that, yet drew a straw, as expected it being a short one. The guys made sounds of surprise that sounded fake to her and when Catherine was all “Me next, me!” again, she was for a second time foregone, now in favour of Scar.

Buccaneer’s surprised tone of voice was totally fake.

“ _Oh my,_ the second short one! Well, then we can curb this, right?”

The other straws vanishing, her friends moving already, even though Cathy was a bit pouty.

And just like that, she was locked up in a room with Scar, the nice clerk saying something about this being a special challenge, collecting their phones and shutting the door. The lights going out not a second later.

“You know what we have to do?”

She’d not spoken to the clerk, even though Olivier knew that Scar hadn’t either. Yet, the concept of an Escape Room wasn’t too hard to get, usually pretty straightforward with its goal.

“Find a key of some sort, right?”

Scar speaking up to her right, his voice seemingly standing out to her, vision deactivated. Heard him move, felt his warmth come closer and just like that felt a hand on her boob. He immediately realized his mistake.

“Oh my, I’m sorry.”

A blush overtaking her features, the heat easy to feel. The darkness having her mourn though, that she couldn’t see his. Scar was cute when embarrassed, honest in a way to her, much more honest than much of the other people she’d met. No ill intent within him, only true bashfulness. Like when he looked at her padding through the hallway in only a towel after showering.

“No really, don’t worry, it’s dark and all. Found anything useful?”

Under different circumstances Olivier knew she’d have clocked him in the face, but like this? Her question apparently taken the wrong way, Scar’s voice suddenly a pitch higher.

“What?!”

Stretched out her own arms, after two steps making contact with a wall. Or Scar trained even more than she thought.

“I think there’s something on the wall, would you…?”

Fingers finding etchings in the wall, some deep, some high. Scar moving next to her, his warmth closing in again, though this time he found the wall, his palms brushing over the bumpy surface with some noise.

“You’re onto something there. Is that a text?”

Professionalism took over. No way in hell she’d be done after her scheming little brother!

“Etched into the wall, right?”

“Like something you know?”

“Nah, but I think there’s a kind of sequence, if you let me just…”

Scar moving again next to her, seemingly stretching and then crouching. When he turned again, having moved around her seemingly, he got a handful of something that wasn’t wall, yet also not boob.

“Uhm, that’s not the wall!”

“Sorry!”

His hand basically flying from her behind like he’d been burned, though she could hardly keep herself from snickering now. What was this? Why did their brothers and friends feel the need to lock them into a tiny, dark room? Weren’t they grown-ups that should be able to talk about everything as such?

“Okay, I think there’s a sequence here with numbers and,” Scar seemed to be back to being professional, stretching next to her, his hip bumping a little into her middle. She did not move out of the way, “Jup, there’s definitely something on the ceiling.”

“Can you reach?”

Olivier would never say it loudly, but she was small. Ceilings were off-limits for her without aid.

“No, I’m too short. But it seems like wheels that turn, like with a numbers-bike-lock.”

She bit her lip, for a second holding back a gripe about tall people always able to comment on their own shortness, but keeping herself from it. He was trying to have them be done first after all.

“Is there something we can stand on?”

Searched around with her foot, only making contact with his shin. Scar audibly winced, but kept his voice level when he spoke next.

“I could lift you.”

A shiver running through her upon these words, the thought alone of his arms around her again, like they’d been that night, sending her mind into overdrive. Olivier tried to catch herself. Since when was she a teenage girl with a huge crush?

“Well, okay.”

Heard him shuffle, was shuffling herself, Scar’s voice small when he spoke next, apologetically.

“You’ll have to guide me a little though, I don’t want to…”

“Yeah, I get it. believe me, I am not a fan of surprise-boob-grabs either.”

His hands on her then, on her back at first, prompting her to wonder when he’d rounded her yet again. Instead she took his hands in hers, trying to ignore the queasy feeling in her stomach fluttering up at that. Guided them towards her hips, blushing furiously, she knew, though for the first time truly and utterly glad for the darkness surrounding them. With a pat told him that she was ready, lifting her arms over her head so as to not accidently make contact with the roof.

“Numbers?”

Olivier managed to sound fierce, though Scar’s voice sounded a little strained when answering.

“1 – 3 – 5 - 1 - 9 - 6.”

Nothing happened.

“I think I need to start from the other side. Can you still go?”

Felt him nod, his head softly nudged against her behind and then hastily withdrawn. Rolled the numbers, as easy to feel as those on the wall, until she heard a satisfying sound.

“The clicking meant it worked, right?”

Olivier knew that she wasn’t too heavy, yet to hold her up over his head for so long must’ve put a strain on him. Was set down softly though, hands on her hips for a moment, feet back on the floor. Missed their heat when they left her. Decided to play it off, felt alongside the walls, finding a handle again. It didn’t budge, which led her to kick it.

“The lazy asses probably haven’t figured theirs out yet.”

“I bet they’re doing their best Olivier.”

Was so patient again, something he hadn’t seemed to be when they first met. Calmed at his words, if only a little, leaning against the wall.

“Tch, but we’re doing better. You noticed Buccaneer rigged the straw-drawing?”

Did not know why she felt the need to bring it up now, but thought that there was no sense crying over spilled milk.

“He did?”

Sincere surprise in his voice, as if he hadn’t noticed that their brothers were dead-set on setting them up. She wanted them to keep out of it, to let them go their own pace, not even sure if there was a way to go _any_ pace on.

Their start had truly been more than rocky, for months she’d denied herself the possibility to even think about him romantically. And yet he seemed to always be there. Helped with her studies, with her food, took interest in her art, he…

“Let’s sit down, this could take a while.”

Scars voice warm, his hand on hers suddenly, pulling her down the wall. He let got of her hand then, though she felt that she did not want him to.

“Olivier, I know that we got off on the wrong foot and that we’re quite different, but…”

Broke off with his words, seemingly coming from nothing, making her wonder where he suddenly took the bravery, the feelings from. For weeks now she’d told herself that he was only being a friend, that her infatuation with him was childish, immature, and yet…

“Tell me more.”

Did she always sound like this? And did Scar always took such deep breaths before talking? Was his voice always this warm?

“I think, I mean, only if you want to of course, but maybe…”

Searched in the darkness, felt her heart beat out of her chest, something lodged in her throat. It made her unable to egg him on, yet her hand finding his seemed to do the trick.

“Let’s go on a date some time?”

Their fingers were clammy, sweaty and yet interlaced, his thumb caressing the back of her hand while she pressed her blunt nails into his flesh. Her voice breathy when she answered, the _thing_ that had lodged in her throat beaten after a few breathless moments.

“I’d love to.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have a chapter my loves :D

"So what, we now pretend that this isn't a problem?"

Akeem knew that anger wasn't one of his most usual emotions. He tended to be rather calm, approaching problems slowly and carefully, not too keen on letting emotions overrule his brain. Yet, he was pacing the room, Miles on the couch, seeming to not be hurt visibly by his harsh tone of voice.

It amazed him time and time again how his love was able to stay unoffended.

"Akeem, love, I'm not saying it isn't a problem, but pleading for racism in court will simply not work."

"What are you now, a law-student?!"

He was aware that he was mean and unreasonable, and that Miles wasn't wrong. But he'd seen such discrimination before, had lived through it, his brother... Suddenly Miles was in front of him, hands cupping his face and stilling all of his movements. Stilling the fear that was forcing his brain to abandon all reason.

"Love, I'm not saying that all of this wasn't racist to the bone. But if you take this to court things could go awry in the way of people mugging you in the streets, of someone just deciding that you are too troublesome," His love sighing, deeply, "I know it's selfish, but I'm afraid of losing you."

Their foreheads resting against the others for several deep breaths, Akeem feeling his anger simmer down. It would not subside anytime soon, was always there, the things that had been done to him, his family, his brother, never to be forgotten. But Miles was right, as of now a single attack by him against the government, a lawsuit opened because he felt the honour of state certified practitioner-alchemist being denied to him because of his race probably not the single most stupid thing he could do, but close.

Breathed deeply once more, ire having left his words, Miles intentions so sincere.

"What will I do then Javed?"

His love took his time to answer but did not let him go. Thought before speaking, the greatest form of respect one could show his father had used to say.

"Make it so that they can't deny you. Join the protests, the masses at least a little safer. Let's try to sort out the citizenship-thing."

Wordlessly they slipped into a tight hug.

Akeem had pleaded for a second person to grade his test, now willing to give up on his license as alchemy practitioner. He'd only ever wanted to help people with his alchemy after all, when the parliament had voted to create a position that was different from state alchemist elated that his dreams were now closer to coming true. And then he'd gotten the results in the mail this morning, still being refused a license, still on the grounds of being an Ishvalan. Of course, legally they claimed that his refugee papers were not enough to proof his identity, but it was well known that this was nothing more than a red herring.

Found the strength, the energy, to speak again, murmuring into Miles shoulder.

"You really think it will do some good if I apply for citizenship? Do the test and the course and all that jazz?"

A kiss pressed to the skin of his neck, soft and warm and sending a surge of calmness through him.

"If anybody can do it, then you!"

Laughed then, only relief coursing through him, calm and love and a kind of serenity. He could do it! Miles believed in him, thought this was a good idea and the more rational part of his brain, coaxed out by all the softness, agreed. Miles warm against him, holding him tight, the living room of the usually overcrowded apartment blessedly empty. The two of them sitting down after a while, still close together, though Akeem was reminded by his brain that something like reality would still cause some trouble.

"Miles, as far as I know becoming a citizen is linked to a lot of costs. I don't know if I can afford that."

Akeem feeling that his worries weren't waved away, instead thought about. Miles voice honest, not sugar-coating things, but not making things out as worse than they were.

"We both don't earn that much money. But I guess we could think of something, maybe there is a charity for such things? We'll ask the others, look online, figure something out, how about that?"

A bit teary he felt, his loves willingness to support his dreams for the future and doing everything it takes rendering him speechless for a moment. The willingness to think about what to do, to brainstorm ideas and to talk to people about it all. Would probably have him shed a tear too, if it weren't for one more question nagging in the back of his mind.

"What do you think my brother will say?"

Scar was wilful, bull-headed, an idiot clinging to their heritage too much at times and at the same time hung-up on it so much that he tried to forget it too. With their parents dying before they'd been of age their claim to their surname had vanished when one followed the oldest ishvalan laws and traditions. But at the same time so many had told them that they should reclaim their family name, should keep their line from being forgotten, people of their own heritage. His little brother had always been staunchly against it.

Yet, Scar had also abandoned becoming a priest, so there was that.

"He'll love you, whichever way you choose. He'll maybe need someone hitting him over the head, but he'll get it."

Laughed, truly laughed at that, pulling Miles a little closer. Felt mirth course through him, his mobile on the table in front of the couch, beeping just in time with his words, Scar's picture blinking at him.

"Just when you perfectly characterize my brother he calls, figures! Wonder what's the matter, he'd been all secretive when leaving the house earlier."

The anxiety he instantly felt at his little brothers panicked tone translating to his face seemingly, as Miles reacted accordingly, sitting upright and ready for anything. Akeem though, easily found words to say to his brother.

"You _idiot_ , why didn't you tell me sooner?!"

* * *

"Oh my god!"

She muttered it under her breath, for the seventh time already, was sure that Scar hadn't heard, though could not keep her eyebrows from rising higher.

He'd been super nervous when picking her up from Amues and Strongine’s place, understandably so in her opinion. Olivier knew after all that he'd never been on a date before, it being clear to her that this was a first for him, close to forbidden in his mind probably. Had gotten ready as such, thwarting her sisters attempts to dress her in something outrageous, instead opting on her favourite red and fitted pullover and a rather tight pair of jeans, showing off _some_ of her figure. Had let them do her hair, as they'd kept it practical and falling free, had even managed to escape the overbearing make-up proposals made, which she felt would make her look like a clown. Threw on her trusty black leather jacket and went out to meet him.

When they'd arrived at the restaurant he'd picked out though, she'd wished for having been disguised by her sisters.

Not that Scar wasn't sweet, he'd brought her roses, though not her favourite the gesture incredibly kind. He'd bowed, he'd tried his best to make small talk, all while his hands had jittered and the awful, ill-fitting and wrong-shade-of-brown-lend-suit had seemed to vibrate on his body. Was at least a size to big and hell, not in the _slightest_ complimenting his skin tone. Scar basically looked like he'd fallen into ash.

The _real_ problem though that he'd chosen one of the upper-class establishments that her parents owned.

Had flushed when one of the waiters greeted her by name, when the employees started fussing over them. Were talking amongst themselves too, though covertly, Olivier having no doubt that her father would hear of this in less than half an hour. Scar turning an even deeper shade of red when upon his question what was up, she told him openly that this was one of her families places. Had ceased talking for the most part then, picking at his foot, stuttering and sputtering and barely looking her in the eye.

Scar had indeed taken over the bill graciously, though that was something she wasn't as keen on, honestly. Knew that this must've cost him a small fortune, that he did not earn nearly enough for something like this. Was wondering when sitting in the cab towards their next destination, if he even did know her at all?

She'd always been under the impression that Scar got her, was aware of what she liked and what she didn't. And she too had thought to know him pretty well. Well enough to know that suits like these weren't his favoured choice of clothing, that he wasn't fond of overly expensive and posh restaurants. That taking her to see some romcom was the last thing she'd expect from someone like him.

They stood in line, Scar ordering, apparently not even aware what she liked to eat or drink, though the one most often by her side when grocery shopping. Thwarting her hopes of them watching something fun at least, maybe that new comic-book-movie, or a satire. Instead being sat down in a love seat by him, a boring as fuck romance-movie starting to roll.

And instead of taking her hand, he was kneading the armrest next to it.

Olivier had been nervous too, there was no point denying it. But she'd also been incredibly happy when Scar had asked her out in the darkness of the Escape Room, had been glad for the absence of light masking her blush, her grin. The last week she'd spent basically floating, classes of no importance anymore, a bit of free-time to finally be had again. She'd hidden one of the walls in Scar's and her room from view, was working on something for him, full of glee and happiness while doing so.

And when he'd taken her to the restaurant...well, it _was_ his very first date and how should he have been supposed to know that her parents owned it?

Had understood that it made him clam up a little bit, though it wounded her at the same time. Why couldn't he talk to her, why didn’t he try to think of the kind of person she was, maybe chosen something besides the standard-dating-course? She so wanted this to work after all, though now was doubting, some nondescript couple on the screen in front of them doing what he'd done today with her, falling in love in the process. Was she maybe just too blind to see, or were they maybe just not compatible like that?

And if this was all wrong, then why did her heart skip a beat when he looked at her?

Just when she decided to make a move, to just take his hand in hers and give him another chance, to maybe ease some of his nervousness, he stood up and left. Did not gesture that he had to go to the toilet, or that something was the matter. Only flushed and left, illuminated by the light of the movie, the couple kissing on the screen, eyes closed and love apparent.

When she heard the door of the showing room fall shut, she threw a handful of salted popcorn at the screen and huffed angrily.

Scar was an _idiot_.

* * *

"Restaurant and a movie, _really_? Is he an _idiot_?"

They sighed, clapping Buccaneer on the back and then proceeding to fill the backpack with cans.

"Don't be so hard on him, it's his first time."

A shudder running through Buccaneer at that, Solar fully able to picture just _what_ their partner had to be seeing in their minds eye right now. The loud sound of disgust inevitable.

" _EWW_!!! Do you honestly think they would do that?! I mean, a restaurant and a movie, who does he think Olivier is?! She would never!"

A thought Solar deemed to be fuelled by what they liked to call the brother-syndrome. Buccaneer, even though he was younger, tended to care a bit too much for his sisters, seeing dangers even where they could defend themselves without trouble. Or when there weren’t any.

"Rich, coming from the man that once told me that his sister was _adventurous_."

Framing the last word with air-quotes, grinning at Buccaneers exasperated expression. He grumbled.

"I'm just watching out for her, nothing wrong with that. Just thought that Scar would come up with something more fitting for them..."

Sentence turning to unintelligible gibberish, both of them putting the last of the spray-cans in the backpack.

Miles had called them about half an hour before, telling them how Akeem had been called by Scar. The date Olivier had been taken on, that neither Scar nor Olivier seemingly told anybody about, going horrible. That Scar wanted to try and turn the tide but needed help. Solar had taken Bucc by his braid then, leading the protesting and a bit angry at not being told oaf to the tram, from where they rode to the apartment. Miles and Akeem in the kitchen, readying a basket with food, while they worked on the second part of the date-rescue.

When the backpack was shut, and the drawstring pulled into a tight knot, Solar faced their love.

"Buccaneer," spoke softly, arms resting on his shoulders, a gesture that always calmed their big love down a little, "I guess Scar is just really, _really_ nervous to go on a date with her. It's cute that he can't even think straight when she’s around, don't you think?"

This big oaf of course making a face first, but then sighing, deflating, smiling at her.

"He _is_ very gentle with her," immediately conflict showed itself on his face, eyes narrowing again and lips pouting, "But Scar has also shown that he can be the exact opposite and now he's taking Liv on such a lame date, and..."

They talked over him, voice soft, arms slipping from Buccaneers shoulders and hands instead cupping his face. Pulling on his current weird beard of the week, the aerugan moustache not really complimenting his features. The wince they evoked with that shutting him up well.

"And now he's trying to do better my bear. _Let him!_ She loves him so, and he's head over heels too."

Kissed their boyfriend, the matter put to rest for now.

"Let's get the bags to Akeem."

In the den swiftly, rooting through Olivier's and Scar's room to find paint and spray cans always dangerous, as Buccaneer claimed that some of the stuff she used was probably toxic. The door closed behind them, Solar still thinking about how she'd already worked at the Madame when Olivier had been in the "I-shall-work-with-acid-and-melt-things"-phase, which then had been at its height, the paintings produced during greatly underappreciated in her opinion.

"You guys are done? Great! We’ll just have to wait for Scar to pick them up, they’ll take them to the old Douglas-building near Central Command, at main street."

Solar felt the blood freeze in their veins, Buccaneer stopping dead in his tracks next to them. Put into words what they couldn't say.

"He wants to take her to do something on _main street_?!"

Akeem shrugged.

"It's opposite of the Seven Sands, so he can take her for a coffee after. Also don't forget: he's an idiot."

* * *

"What's all that about?!"

Blushed a little, feeling embarrassed to the bone by his own actions, his very own stupidity. Could get her tone, irritated as it was, the evening having been less than desirable as of yet. The people around them making shushing noises, though Olivier at least let herself be pulled by his hand around her wrist, hurriedly having grabbed their stuff.

Pulled him to a stop once they were out of the showing room, feet seemingly buried deep in the carpet.

"Scar, I'll only ask once more: What's all this about?!"

Gosh, how could he ever get the idea that someone like him even had a /chance/ with someone like her?! Looked almost ethereal in the dim light of the cinema-hallway, hair long and curly and seemingly made of silk. The clothes she wore fitting, not overdone, though not bland either. Stood straight, so sure of herself, yet her eyes set on him, open.

How could he have thought to present her with this boredom of a date? How could he ever think that he could impress her? How...

"Scar!"

Olivier's voice not soft, nor a scream, but laced with an urgency that finally coaxed the words out of him.

"I... Olivier, I... up until now this date was just rubbish. The restaurant I choose, and by Ishvala this _movie_...," a nod coming from her, eyebrows having vanished in her hairline. He must've _really_ shown her the kind of dumbass he is, "I _know_ that I don't deserve it in the slightest, but if you would give me a second chance to turn this date around..."

Behind them someone stepped out of the showing room, the female lead of the movie saying something to her love in an overly sultry voice, which had both, Olivier and him, flinch. Her hand he'd still not let go off moving, taking his, squeezing once. Her voice not warm yet, but firm.

"Well then, let's go!"

Let herself be led by him, heat not leaving his face, her hand not letting go of his.

Their march through the cinema quick, though he noticed how Olivier let go of the popcorn when passing the bin, getting rid of it without preamble. Scar struck by his own ignorance then, the clerk at the front desk looking at them without any subtlety. It was as close to a screeching halt as his body could get.

"Oh by Ishvala I bought you salted popcorn, didn't I?! I'm so sorry, I'm such an _idiot_ today, I..."

"You should've known better, yes, but don't beat yourself up about it," Her gaze turning to a truly dangerous one for a moment then, "But be sure to never repeat that mistake, or I'll show you how _salty_ I can get!"

A slender finger jabbing into his chest, with enough force to hurt a little. Yet, it somehow felt like Olivier just poked a hole into him, like he was deflating a little, most of his nervousness, his fears, slowly seeping out through the hole she'd poked in his defences.

A smile pushing forth, the first in a while, one Scar did not dare to hold back.

"I'll remember. Now come, or we'll miss the tram."

Was that what others felt when they held hands? This intensity, the warmth of the other? His heart was beating out of his chest since he'd noticed that his hand was held by hers tightly. His brain firing endorphins in all directions, making him incredibly happy, with the lessening nervousness his whole chest feeling ready to burst all of a sudden. He never wanted to let go of her.

"Where are we off to?"

In Olivier's voice only a little bit of weariness, a slither of humour too.

"We'll have to stop at the apartment, I need to pick something up."

The tram full when they jumped in, hands still intertwined, both jolted each time the carriage moved. Olivier speaking close to his ear, some teens blasting music way too loudly.

"Do me a favour?" Scar inclined his head to show he was listening. " _Change_. You look wholly uncomfortable in this get-up."

Even though her words were without malice, yet another blush crept over his cheeks at them. She was right, he _was_ absolutely uncomfortable in this suit. It had been the last one available, some big military event making it almost impossible to lend a suit in the city at all. And once they'd handed him this brown abomination, Scar had understood why nobody had wanted this one. He'd needed one though, had seen enough romance movies with Akeem to know that a suit was a necessity.

Still, for all his emerging feelings of self-confidence, his body deemed it appropriate for him to stammer.

"I... uh, I am...and I will."

Olivier, as gracious and blunt as always, did not seem to care about his embarrassment. Only nodded with a slight smile on her face, the rest of the ride spent in silence. Their hands still together, bodies sometimes bumping into one another, which filled Scar with a weird kind of glee.

When reaching their station he jogged swiftly up the stairs, mourning the loss of her hand all the while, wondering how such a small gesture could mean so much.

How this feeling, of their hands touching, could feel so good.

"You're an idiot! And _fuck_ , what is this suit?!"

Akeem on point in his opinion, Scar knowing his get-up to look truly hideous if it had his brother resort to swearing. Was waved at by Miles, a shit-eating grin on the fellow Ishvalans face, while Akeem showed him what they'd packed for Olivier and him. Told him of how Buccaneer and Solar had helped, though it had been tough to shove the former of the two out of the flat on time, livid as he was with the thought of someone dating his sister. That Solar had been a huge help regarding this problem.

"And we need to dress you in something else. This suit is just...,"

Akeem opening his mouth, almost shoving his finger in, making unmistakable noises. Scar's reply falling from his lips easily, most of the nervousness gone, anything negative hard to feel when his hand still burned from her touch.

"That's what she said."

Did not understand why Akeem started to laugh almost hysterically at that.

"Ok, while telling you to dress differently, did Olivier let drop any hints as to how?"

Shook his head, comfy not something he wanted to tell his brother, lest he get the lecture he'd gotten before Akeem’s and Miles first date, upon his inquiry why his brother had dressed as he'd dressed: _Who wants to look good should not think about comfort!_ A bullshit-lesson in Scar's opinion. His brother now thrusting clothes at him, cloth pants and a hoodie, a sash, even going so far and getting Scar one of his leather jackets.

"Brother, _red_?"

A deep burgundy rather, but Scar wasn't one to split hairs.

"Don't be an idiot and trust me brother. Red makes your eyes pop!"

* * *

"Ok, I get now what took you so long."

Olivier had busied herself with absentmindedly rubbing her hand, looking at the people passing by, pretty sure that she'd at one point heard Buccaneer call her name. When she'd turned around to look though, he hadn't been anywhere she could see. And he was usually pretty hard to miss. Scar on the other hand... She saw people turning when he stepped out of the building and could get perfectly well why.

Hair mussed up and not so titivated, the ugly brown suit exchanged for black pants, a dark green and pretty tight fitting hoodie and a red leather jacket. Deep red, making his eyes stand out. His sash wound around his waist, accentuating his muscular build. Features seeming more edgier, jawline sharp. The slight blush on his cheeks perfected the look.

"Sorry, I've been held up, and...," like lightening she felt the need to cut into his slight rambling, "Had to go buy this jacket, huh? Fits you, you look good. Handsome."

Could barely withstand the urge to touch his hair, the pull strong. Instead offered to take one of the bags, Scar refusing at first and prompting her with that to just grab one and pull it off his shoulder. With a slight scowl she was handed the backpack, the feeling of cans clanking against each other through cloth well-known to her. Giddiness bloomed, deepening when once the backpack was securely on her shoulders, roses peeking out from where she carefully put them.

The way back to the tram-station not long, Scars hand searching for hers. Tentatively, not as assured as his posture made him seem. Olivier took it without preamble.

"What was it like to grow up with so many siblings?"

Scar's hand squeezing hers a bit, a gesture she returned. Not answering for a moment, these sudden normal date question surprising her in a good way. Maybe now she'd be on a date with the real Scar.

The question one that had her smiling when she answered.

"A fucking circus! Amue, Gine and me were what our mom still calls the trio of doom. We chased each other through the mansion and when that became too loud we were put outside to roam the grounds. Pretty sure we dug holes alongside fathers’ dogs."

Scar smiling at that, pushing the button to open the doors of the tram, it again being packed full. The line to central Central one of the most used at the worst of times, absolutely overcrowded like today even more usual. Both ending up in a corner, standing, her leaning against the window and Scar in front of her, swaying with the movements of the tram.

"And that changed when you got older?"

"When Alex was born. Mom pretty cleverly roped us three into helping to take care of him, which was fun in its own way. Though we still wreaked havoc on the mansion, only not as often."

Grinned, the tram leaning a little to one side when it drove through a bend, Scar bumping into her. The blush back on his cheeks, though she did not give him a chance to be shut up by his embarrassment again.

"How was it with your brother when you were kids?"

Once the words were out of her mouth Olivier feared that he'd clam up now. Maybe he didn't want to think about it, or it was painful, or...

"People never believe me, but my brother could be quite the bully if he wanted to be. There were more boys his age than mine in our village, so I either had to play with them, or with the girls that were my age. Means I was either the boy that played with girls for him and his friends, or the boy that played with the mean boys when I was with the girls."

She couldn't suppress a slight laugh.

"Sounds like you couldn't win. Though really, it _is_ hard to imagine Akeem as somewhat of a bully."

Scar smiled. Olivier, though not one to tell people what to do with their mouths, thought that he should more often.

"He could be the _worst_. Though he was actually really kind most of the time. During the festivities he always made it so that I could stay out long too and play with the others. Convinced Mother and Father that he'd watch over me," Scar's tone growing wistful, his eyes looking like they were far away. She squeezed his hand once more, smiling. "Of course I slipped away then too. Stuffed myself full of pastries, tried to win the games that were offered for the kids, this kind of stuff."

His eyes seemingly back in reality, locked on hers. Her smile returned with warmth.

"When were you taller than your brother? And more importantly: Did the bullying stop then? Or do I have to talk to Akeem?"

Was that just a chuckle from Scar?

"I think I was taller when I turned twelve. Grew like river-grass during that time. But no, Akeem only abuses his status as the older brother now."

Her retort came quick.

"Tch, like I'm not abusing the older-sister-power with my siblings," It definitely was a chuckle. And he cheekily talked over her now too, "Not only with your siblings!"

Scar winced when she hit him in the chest.

"Ow, that hurt!"

“It better!”

A jolt send them into one another, Scar only barely able to keep himself from falling completely onto her. Yet, their faces were close, their noses almost touching and heat rushed to Olivier’s cheeks.

When was the last time she’d found someone to be as exciting as him, closeness, in both body and mind, so exhilarating?

The rest of the ride uneventful, safe for their close proximity and the further talk of siblings and parents and childhoods. Olivier looking around with narrowed eyes when they, not soon after getting out of the tram, walked along the main street of the shopping district, past the Seven Sands. For a moment thought that they’d maybe get a coffee, before he led her past her favourite place towards the old Douglas-building.

For quiet some time it had been abandoned, burned out after someone set fire to it. Rumour had it that the same investor that bought the now ruined building, had made sure that it burned in the first place. It was now to be reconstructed, on the outside fitted with a scaffold and tarp. Scar’s hand holding hers still, pulling her inside through planks missing from one of the boarded-up windows that surely had still been there this morning when she’d gotten herself a coffee and had thought about what a great canvas this place would be.

Connected the dots effortlessly and smiled to herself, the mix of glee at his hand still holding hers and of getting to paint almost making her vibrate with happiness.

The building was basically only blackened concrete when they wandered through it, nothing much having happened yet in the vain of renovation and reconstruction. The staircases were still functional, if missing handrails, and were climbed quickly by them. Windows stopped being boarded up after they passed the tenth floor and when they arrived at the middle of the building, about fifteen floors up, the wind blew stronger and the air was colder.

The tarp hiding them thoroughly from view though when they stepped out on the scaffold.

“I guess we still need to be quiet?”

Scar whispered seemingly as a precaution.

“Yes, but don’t worry too much. Up here you hear what’s going on below pretty loudly, but _we_ have to be quite loud for them to hear us.”

For many moments there was silence between them, Olivier unpacking and arranging the cans, while Scar opened up the food, offering her a sandwich. She took it with a smile.

He leaned in a little, a sandwich of his own in his hands, apparently having decided to keep whispering. The proximity this created something she didn’t mind at all.

“Okay, how do we go about this. Can I do something?”

In not as silent words as his she explained where to put tape, how long to shake the can and where to paint what. In-between every now and then trivia about themselves exchanged, but also questions she felt to be of importance, the kind Olivier realised to not have been asked often.

“When did you start with the art-stuff?”

Olivier had actually turned around when this one slipped out of his mouth. The first question usually was _“How much do your paintings sell for?”_.

“Since I was a kid I guess. There was always stuff to draw with lying around, even though I more than once forgone the paper in favour of the walls. Dad would always get angry, but Mom only ever laughed and admired my pieces.”

“So it was a natural affinity?”

Scar looking at her, the illumination coming from the street-lamps and having to fight through the tarp sparse, panting his features in its very own way.

“It is rumoured that there’s a genetic talent in my family for it. Put me off of art for a while as a teen, felt like I was being pushed to fit a mould, you know?” A nod from him, no smirk nor smile. But an ease in his form she a few months ago would’ve denied existed. “Eventually Mom and my siblings picked up on me not doing anything anymore. And today I know it was a planned ploy by them, but my sisters suddenly asking about how to do what really helped reignite the spark I had for it all.”

Scar stepping closer to her, a new can in hand, shaking it carefully.

“And what do you like most about it?”

She did not need to think about it.

“My art doesn’t lie.”

Knew instantly that someone else would need explaining, but that Scar got it. That she was tight-lipped, struggled with expressing emotions and that art was what enabled her to honest, ripped the mask away and just let her be herself.

Scar seemed to be done with shaking the can, though at the same time clearly unsure as to what to do now. Without a hitch she repositioned the can in his hand with “Like this!”, leading it while the wall got covered in paint, only letting go when she felt that he was on the right track.

Not long after, several cans already empty and the spontaneous project taking form, their conversation had taken a more humorous turn.

“…and I couldn’t just give up, you understand that, right? So I sat down, loosened my sash a little and got to work.”

“Thirty-two pancakes? And you kept them all down?”

Olivier could not keep the awe out of her voice.

“Yes, but barely. Won the prize though, so that was something. But to this day…” Olivier talking over him, a huge grin on her face now, his story explaining so much. “…you can’t eat a single pancake. Now I appreciate your breakfast-pancakes even more!”

Scar chuckling at that, his nervousness seemingly completely gone, his hands covered in paint. The wind having tousled his hair up plenty, a few strands falling into his eyes. It struck her that this was the happiest-looking she’d ever seen him.

Turned back around, felt heat colour her cheeks, though not out of embarrassment. Instead butterflies were tumbling around in her stomach, or at least it felt like that. She’d seen him before, saw him every day of the week, was seeing him _daily_ for months now. But never before had she seen him like that, so easy and carefree, so happy. Olivier wanted him to always be like that.

Felt his gaze on her back and spoke without thinking.

“What are you doing?”

She turned for a second, Scar just standing there with his arms folded in front of his chest, looking at her. Shrugging.

“Just looking, I guess.”

Olivier simply had to raise her brows and speak in a sing-song voice.

“Creepy!”

Scar lost a bit of his composure, arms falling to his side and one eyebrow rising up to vanish in his hairline.

“How about,” thought about it for a moment, before a big smile stretched his mouth, “I’m admiring a masterpiece!”

His gesture was a bit helpless.

“Even creepier!”

Smiled at him, returned without a hitch. Yet, she saw sudden hesitation in his form, the breaks he always seemed to hit whenever he let loose too much in his mind. Knew that there were words to come that Scar had wanted to say for quite a while.

"I got to be honest with you Olivier, midway through this disaster of a date I called my brother and asked for help and _nothing_ of this now was my idea, and...," Olivier just letting go of the current can and walking over the two and a half steps, hands cupping his face, shutting him up effectively. Her voice earnest, though with a tad of humour.

"You thought I didn't notice that you idiot?"

His eyes wide, colour on his cheeks. It was easy to get lost in the factettes of his eyes Olivier noted, already feeling like she couldn’t surface from them.

Was thinking about kissing him, her heart telling her to and her brain basically _screaming_ at her to get a grip and just kiss him like there was no tomorrow already. Everything halted when sounds from below reached them, different then those of the usual passers-by.

“You heard that Greene? Sounded like something _fell_ up there. Probably that vigilante, they’ve been quiet!”

The other voice deeper, more tired. Nonchalant.

“I heard nothing Jacobs, and I don’t think that anybody would be so stupid to…,” the chain of command between these two, whom she guessed to be military police, clear by how the other was spoken over, “One of the boarded-up windows has been broken into Greene! We need to investigate!”

Scar looked shocked and at a loss for what to do, but Olivier felt her instincts and muscle-memory kick in. Her voice lowered, she gestured while talking.

“Throw them all in the backpack, even the empty ones. They search for fingerprints!”

Helped him, their second backpack with the picnic quickly filled with cans too, Olivier pulling the hood of Scar’s hoodie out and over his head and him with her. Walking slowly on the narrow walkways she pulled him around the corner of the building, the sounds from inside growing louder and louder.

Silently she thanked the heavens for stupid MPs and their inability to speak or breath quietly.

“Here!”

Was the rubble chute the safest option? Surely not, but she knew that it was a damn good diversion. Quickly Olivier dangled her backpack over it, gesturing for Scar to do the same. Urgently she whispered.

“We gotta be quick. When we throw the backpacks down the chute the MPs will come running. We get inside through the window to our right and hide behind the ledge. They won’t be looking because of the noise. Once they’re past we run down, get the backpacks and hide. You can keep up?”

Scar looked self-assured and grim when he held his backpack out above hers, but also ready. On her nod let his backpack fall together with hers, the noise from them falling down the chute almost deafening, the rattling cans amplifying the usual rumbling to a cacophony of clamour.

Was right behind her when she jumped through the empty window frame, pressing against the wall and waiting for the MPs to pass them. Even took the lead during their dash through the building, moving with a dexterity and grace she wouldn’t have expected. When Olivier turned towards the way they came from Scar took her wrist. He did not even seem a bit out of breath.

“What?”

He hurried, pulling her along.

“There’s loose planks on the back of the building.”

She followed, his suggestion needing no more explanation, coming out the same way one came in always dangerous. Scar’s shoulder in seconds leaving them with another opening after passing a barrage of dark and bare rooms, the night air cool and stinging her lungs. Their pace not slowing though, the MPs not standing at the top of the chute anymore when she peeked around the corner, though nowhere else to be seen either.

With a quick nod they dashed forwards, grabbed the backpacks now white from the dust of the rubble and ran.

Rounded corners, Scar’s steps always behind her, calming her greatly. Exhilaration again washing over her, fear pumping through her veins too, once or twice the light of a flashlight behind them. Rounding two corners in quick succession she threw her backpack in an open trash-container, Scar following suit with his. Her gesture then quick, interpreted right by him.

A small thud heard when he jumped right in after their stuff, catching her when she followed not a second later. Caught her with his body, her back connecting with his chest, arms winding around her middle. Automatically she pulled the container closed and shortly considered her luck at having by instinct found one only filled with paper yet again.

Words nearby could be heard, people running past, though as so often nobody seemed to think about looking into the trash-containers.

Olivier let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding when everything seemed quiet, sinking into Scar further.

“So that’s what you’ve always been doing at night?”

Noticed that he still held her just as tight, though there was something to his tone of voice Olivier couldn’t place.

“Minus the running away parts, yes. I don’t get nearly caught as often as Buccaneer tries to make people believe!”

She expected a chuckle, or an answer. Anything but silence and a heaviness to the small place suddenly. And not the good kind.

“Scar, what’s the matter?”

He sighed deeply.

“Just…this date was utter garbage Olivier. This second half wasn’t even my idea, I panicked halfway through and asked my brother for help! I did everything wrong, I nearly got us caught here, I…”

“…thought incredibly well about it all beforehand and tried to make it a good experience? Because that’s what you did Scar, though I will blame nervousness and the wrong expectations evoked by romance movies for the first half of it. And,” pushed her head back and deliberately trying to smother him with her hair when she heard him take a deep breath, “Let me finish! That you dared to change plans gave me the chance to paint, to paint with _you_! Honestly, what’s not to love?”

He did not seem convinced.

Olivier felt honestly confused. Had _she_ maybe done something wrong? It was true, while living in close quarters with Scar she did not know _nearly_ everything about him. But she’d been under the impression that since the change of plan he’d been so much happier, so much more himself. His voice grim when he spoke.

“We’re sitting in the trash!”

Why did she somehow find this so inexplicably funny? Was it the way he said it, so matter-of-factly? Or that this situation was so new to him and took him by surprise, showing on his face in the semi-darkness of the garbage container? Probably it was just the rush of the day and its happenings, yet Olivier found it difficult to keep her laughter down. Twisting in his still tight grip she fully turned around, facing him. An unsure smile on his face, only growing more puzzled after she almost laugh-said her next words.

“It’s where we belong!”

And before she could start laughing hysterically, their noses touching, he leaned in and captured her lips with his.

Shutting her up effectively.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, what do you think? Was it cool? Cute? Sweet? Complete and utter garbage (and if yes, then why are you knee deep in chapter nine of this garbage^^)? What shall happen next? Tell me :D


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have this one my dears :D <3

Scar was a good kisser.

Not only good, but great even. Had learned fast how she liked it the most, lips only sometimes coarse, depending on the weather outside she guessed. Moved fluidly, teeth sometimes nibbling, tongue begging for entry at times. Their first kisses having been timid still, as Olivier had let him take the lead, though he'd grown bolder fast.

And he'd overcome his initial shyness on the matter too, arms around her waist on his fold-out-bed.

Granted, she'd pretty much assaulted him today. Had been painting the wall for him further, still hidden from his view buy the makeshift curtain cutting the room in two. Scar had read in his book meanwhile, at least each time when she'd pocked her head out. But after a while, fingers hurting a little and eyes growing tired, her mind had wandered more and more to him.

What she was painting on this wall was a gift, a thank you for how he'd helped her through that thrice-damned bachelor’s in business. Was basically brining a photograph Akeem had shown her to life, the brothers on it, standing on the marketplace of their hometown. A fountain in the back, tiles glazed and blue, the houses more colourful then the pictures in her books as a child had made them seem. Market stalls crammed in every nook and cranny, cloth vibrant shades of blue and red and yellow. Olivier had decided to omit the people in the picture, planned for a view of a city long lost to Scar. Not even sure if he would like it.

Yet, she felt the need to try.

And the work on this of course forcing her to think of him, forcing her thoughts to wander and circle. The place he grew up in, a place he loved and cherished. Would he like it? Hate it? No matter, she had to think of him while painting, the urge to be by his side at some point always winning out over her desire to paint this one further. She'd get ready on time anyway, if the world did not crumble to bits tomorrow.

"What are we doing?"

It sent a jolt through her that his voice was breathy already, forehead coming to rest against hers. They'd made out a few times before, Olivier had been rather sure that Scar by now knew what it was.

"We're making out, or what were you taking this for?"

Smiled into the next kiss, a chuckle from Scar not the rarest thing in the world anymore, though still something that spoke of ease for her. Of how close they'd become.

"Your hand..."

His voice a bit strained when he spoke. Heat rushed to her face, her willing it not to clearly not working. Untangled herself from him a little, their position changed to rather sitting next to, instead on top of each other.

_Way to go Liv_ , she chided herself, _put your hand on his dick when you wanted to take it slow!_

"Scar sorry, I... I didn't notice, honestly." Immediately she winced. "That wasn't the right way to say it."

Easing her embarrassment at her own poor choice of words was Scar's laughter. His arm sneaking around her shoulders, pulling her close still.

"Liv, I...," paused a little, breathing, thinking probably, something she should do more before speaking too, "I know you didn't do it on purpose. But I have no experience and...you know?"

She breathed into the crook of his neck, feeling guilty of sorts.

"You want to take it slow, I know. And I want us to, for you to be comfortable with each step. I'll try to be more mindful while getting lost in your embrace, okay?"

Looked up at him, tried the puppy eyes. Surprisingly they _worked._

"Thank you. And to not waste uninterrupted alone-time, how about we make out a bit more?"

One kiss. One more, then she halted it again, foreheads coming to rest against the others for a second time tonight. It felt so important to her, she couldn't just _not_ say it.

"Scar, whenever you are uncomfortable in any way, please tell me."

Eyes fixed on hers, emotions still hard to read for her. Happiness, resentment? Like she would know! Rather suddenly Scar kissed her nose softly.

"I will."

His lips finding hers again, seeming a tad more fevered than before, leaving Olivier to wonder a little.

Had taking it slow always felt so _good_?

* * *

“Look, her parents are over there.”

Akeem pointed, subtly Ishvala be blessed, towards the seats on the second floor, the man who Scar knew to be the dean himself ushering Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong to a pair of seats.

His brother grinning at him, question voiced with humour.

“Think she’ll truly throw her diploma at his face?”

Scar feeling a gaze upon him, looking back to where the Armstrong’s had been seated just a moment before, a set of blue and steely eyes on him. He’d met her father before, several times, though for what he deserved the murderous intent that seemed to be directed at him escaped Scar’s knowledge. Well, if one left out the fact that he was dating the man’s daughter.

A sharp elbow for the utmost time found his side.

_“Hey, earth to Scar, what’s up?”_

The switch to Ishvalan easy, people clearly interested in their conversation around them blushing and turning away.

_“Olivier’s father is seizing me up like I did something horrible.”_

Akeem looking up too, waved at by Mrs. Armstrong, a gesture which his brother returned with a smile. Gaze changing to serious the second he turned back to him though.

_“Okay, he really is. Could be just the typical Dad trying to protect his daughter-thingy?”_

Scar felt himself shrug.

_“Let’s hope so. I know that there’s plenty of trouble with her dad, I wouldn’t want to make it worse for her.”_

He wondered for a moment why they all had come so early for the ceremony, especially as Olivier wasn’t keen on it herself. Only went in person at all, because of the still standing wish to throw the Diploma into her father’s face. Not that he’d tell Akeem that, as he’d just scream in victory upon his guess being true.

_“How’s it going with you two?”_

Did Akeem just wiggle his eyebrows at him?

_“We live in the same apartment brother; how wouldn’t you know?”_

At least his older brother had the decency to lower his voice, speaking Ishvalan or not.

_“Well, I see you two being all blushy and smiley around the other, if you mean that. And I did saw you kiss, but…you know?!”_

The hand-gesture was unmistakable and forced colour to his cheeks. If he weren’t keeping seats free for Buccaneer, Miles and Solaris, Scar probably would get up and leave.

_“WHAT?!”_

People were looking at them again, though Scar was quick to lower his voice again. To his satisfaction still managing to sound just as exasperated though.

_“What?”_

Akeem was straight to the point, as always when speaking Ishvalan.

_“Are you sleeping in the same bed?”_

There was no need for his brother to sound so impatient. Heat rose further up his cheeks, though at the same time through his slight embarrassment fought the notion that if he could talk with anybody about, well, _that_ , it was his brother. When things got serious Akeem never made fun of you.

_“We…yesterday she crawled into my bed after painting, though I was still awake.”_

_“And?”_

Akeem made sure to stretch the word as far as possible.

_“We kissed a bit and…nothing.”_

Forehead over his glasses crinkling, Akeem cocked his head to the side.

_“Nothing on your end or nothing on her end?”_

_“I…you know I never…”_

Gosh, why did his brother have to pin him down here of all places? And why did Scar felt somehow liberated inching towards the topic that was giving him a headache since kissing Olivier in the dumpster? Who was he kidding, the topping giving him a headache since he woke up the night after meeting her, faced with a problem that hadn’t reared its head in a long time.

His brother turned serious, his voice almost smothering him with the life-advice-tone and affection.

_“Scar, if Olivier is pushing you to do things you’re not comfortable with…_

_“No! It’s just that, when things went into a certain direction and I voiced my discomfort, she… she sat up. And talked to me about how she understood and that I would decide the pace and…she was just so very patient.”_

Akeem now looked puzzled.

_“And the problem with that is?”_

Scar felt that the words were tumbling out now, realising that in a long while he’d not spoken so openly with anybody about things troubling him.

_“What if I’m not ready anytime soon? What if I take too long? What…”_

He’d almost forgotten how warm and calming his brothers hand felt when wrapped around his wrist.

_“Have faith in her brother. If she says she will be patient, then she will be.”_

Scar cast his gaze to the floor, muddy from the hundreds of pairs of shoes that’ve walked over it, people waiting to see their children, friends, loved ones get handed their diploma today.

_“What if I’ll never be ready?”_

Akeem smiled at him, with his energy alone helping to lift his gaze from the floor. His brothers’ words sincere and true.

_“You love her, don’t you? You’ll be ready soon enough, don’t worry.”_

And upon these words his worries truly lessened a little, a smile coming to his face. And not two seconds later Buccaneer plopped down next to him, speaking loudly.

“Hey guys, what did we miss?”

* * *

“And how are these two doing?”

Was his wife overly curious about another relationship of their eldest daughter that was likely to end in embarrassment and shambles? Philip Armstrong wondered how he ever could’ve thought otherwise.

His son answering though, arm around Solaris.

“Good I’d say. They declare everything that went well, even the most mundane things by the way, a date. So they made it to twenty-four great dates just this week.”

Ridiculous! Yet, Tina seemed to eat it up, clasped her hands in front of her body with enthusiasm and smiled widely. Solaris speaking up, the almost daily name-changes something Philip did not really get. Had earned himself quite a tongue-lashing when he’d said the wrong thing, first from the Madame at the bar, then from his wife and half an hour later from his son also, via phone. Now he waited until someone addressed Buccaneer’s partner before him and went by whatever pronoun they’d used.

Philip could not say that he understood this genderfluidity thing fully, but Solaris seemed strong and seemed to have a plan. Spoke with a firm voice, gaze set on his wife, humour lacing every word.

“It’s an incredible idea, isn’t it? I mean, they basically tore down traditional dating with this. And to work so cleverly around the thousand things to do and the time-constraints…”

He felt himself zoom out.

Philip had refrained from discussing the newest article in the newspaper with his wife Augustine. They’d been in somewhat of a hurry anyways, Livvie’s ceremony only a few short hours away and his wife had been preoccupied with making arrangements and many little things also. Not that work ever left him alone for long either. Augustine had been the one though, to hook him on the idea of a celebratory lunch with his daughter and her friends.

The perfect opportunity in his opinion, to talk some sense into the most stubborn of his children.

“…he really is the reason she went through with this whole degree thing Mom. Woke her up in the mornings, made her breakfast…”

He’d insisted on driving, Philip never having understood the need to own expensive cars when you did not get to experience them for yourself. The information relayed by his son soaked up, his brain immediately wondering what kind of game that Scar-boy was playing.

His beloved Tina’s voice asking one of the questions that were burning in his mind.

“You know why Livvie was so adamant about going by tram William-dearie?”

A glance in the rear-view mirror made it clear that his son was still embarrassed by his childhood nickname. His answer honest though, given with a suspicious undertone.

“I guess she just wants as much alone time with him as possible. Olivier’s been packing some things up in her room and is incredibly tidy at the moment, so maybe she plans to sequester herself and paint once the vacation at the university starts.”

Solaris speaking up, though Philip did not know where the humour came from. Could they not see what was really going on?

“Or all of his complaints about her turning their room into a minefield finally reached her. How often has he stepped in paint now at night?”

All laughing when a number in the double-digits was said, though Philip felt himself being pre-occupied with driving up to the house, the two pairs walking several paces apart not having escaped his notice.

Still, he first got the umbrella from the trunk, to help Tina out of the car and shield her from the rain, his son doing the same for Solaris and inspiring a flutter of pride in his chest. Watched though, as the two couples approached them, trying to not be annoyed by Olivier’s snide words that the tram was definitely faster than the car during a traffic jam. And there’d not even been a jam today.

Miles and Akeem sharing an umbrella, arms hooked under the others, laughing about something but walking with a quick pace. Miles was a part of the family for many years now to him and his boyfriend an agreeable sort, though Philip was unsure since everything with Scar and his daughter had transpired. Had he maybe been too hasty in his good judgement of Akeem?

Scar holding up an umbrella over Olivier and him too, though a bit lopsidedly, at least one side of the huge man getting drenched in the process. Philip watching as his daughter corrected the mans hold so that he would stay dryer too, though to little avail. Scar saying something that made her grin.

His blood boiling at how close they were, how familiar they acted with one another. He’d seen her be like that with boys before and it had _always_ ended in heartbreak.

And now he feared it would end in things even worse.

Yet, Philip kept his face and back straight when they all went inside the house. Chatter plenty, though he took note of Olivier barely talking to him. Was aware that she only agreed to all of this, because her mother had asked her.

The meal spent with the group of young people talking and laughing and making fun of Olivier’s Business Professor, even though he tried to intervene on that point. Refrained from talking much otherwise though, instead observing. Akeem and Miles as calm as always, Buccaneer and Solaris close, sometimes whispering with each other and his son blushing once or twice. Scar and his eldest sitting close together too, talking and smiling with the rest, though there was a tenseness in his Livvie. Once the talk turned towards what they all wanted to do during the vacation from university, meals finished, Philip spoke up.

“Olivier, have a word with me?”

His words turning the room dead silent.

Tina to his right stiffened at his words, as did just about everybody else. Yet, Olivier got up, walked with him to the room next to this one. Double doors falling shut behind them, Philip looking through his drawer to find the thing he wanted to show her, while his daughter stood firmly rooted in the middle of the room, arms crossed in front of her chest.

“What do you want, father?”

Her tone alone was enough to set him off. Like _he’d_ done something hairbrained and dangerous! He put the article on the table, and only after gesturing her over and an eyeroll she came to look at it.

_ Vigilante spotted after months of silence? _

Beneath the headline a picture, blurry and black and white, of two people running down an alleyway. There weren’t a whole lot of details, hoods over heads and at best a few wisps of hair to be spotted, but Philip knew what was going on. He’d gifted Olivier the leather-jacket after all, when she’d still been a teen. Had accompanied him to work during summer and each day glanced at it on their way to and from. Black and classic, though there was a rose embroidered on the back. Rather small and close to the neck, but still. When he’d gotten it for her during his break, she’d smiled so wide that the image had burned itself into his memory.

The shape of the person running with her easy to discern from her cluster of close friends, broad-shouldered and tall. Ratio of legs and torso fitting in with his assumptions, as well as her being enamoured with him.

She seemingly had no need to read the article, her ears turning a light shade of red.

“Olivier, are you aware what kind of an embarrassment it would be if word got out that you are working with a known vigilante street artist?! You may think that’s cool, or hip, but what if you’re caught, huh?”

Philip thought himself to be reasonable in his approach, but Olivier’s temper seemingly wanted to hear none of that.

“You…,” she sputtered for a moment, anger seemingly always making her stumble in her speech, “You think _Scar_ is the vigilante street artist? And that I’m going with him because we’re in a relationship?!”

“Deary, it’s quite clear! And I know, you consider yourself the artsy type, and I’m really not telling you what hobbies to pursue, but what this guy is doing is dangerous! You’ll just drag your name with him, making it harder once the time comes to take over the family…”

Quite clearly his daughter snapped, close to screaming.

“I don’t fucking want to take over the family business!”

In front of strangers Philip liked to chalk up his daughters’ tempers to their mother, but it was a known truth that he matched it even more closely. His voice turning louder too.

“Oh don’t kid yourself Olivier! What, do you think you can honestly life from your art? You are the oldest, the hardest of the bunch too and will be great as the…”

“I DON’T FUCKING WANT THAT!”

For a moment Philip felt unable to speak.

Olivier was heaving, glaring daggers at him, looking truly upset. The door to the study opening and Augustine coming in, though she refrained from speaking. Around the table he saw the others, some sitting still and some standing.

His own anger at his daughter’s behaviour knowing no bounds.

“Olivier Mira Armstrong! I will not let you run around with some low-life street-artist who has to work in a bakery to make ends meet! Whatever this boy promised you, told you about his talent and making money, it’s all a _lie_! In no time he’ll leave you, or ditch you and you’ll have nothing to show for if you don’t return to make your master’s in business! You…”

When she took a step towards him, voice getting quieter, Philip felt himself being stunned into silence.

“You will _not_ badmouth Scar further! He works so hard on building a future, on growing as a person, you could take a leaf out of his book! For you to be so _blind_ , to…”

Him feeling stunned did not last long.

“What the hell are you thinking Olivier?! Money makes the world go ‘round, our family business is an honourable endeavour! Others would _kill_ for such an opportunity! But you’d rather make crappy art for the rest of your life and become peoples laughing stock?! I will _not_ let that happen!”

The door swinging for a second time, now Scar standing there too, though walking over to Olivier. A hand on her heaving shoulders, words whispered too softly for him to understand. Only more anger welling up inside of him at the sight.

“And you careless fool, don’t touch my daughter! Leave, go anywhere else, but don’t drag her down with you! You’ll leave soon anyways, won’t you? Breaking my little girls’ heart, leaving us to pick up the pieces! You…”

This Scar had guts, for the second time Philip had to silently admit that to himself. The man’s voice deep, foreboding and low. The anger not heard but felt.

“Now _I_ will talk, you inconsiderate man! Your daughter is the greatest artist on this whole planet, has created masterpieces that are even in your own collection! Not I am the vigilante, but she is! And I couldn’t be happier that she let me be so close to her when she works this magic! She’s incredible, she knows what she wants and no big angry man like you can force her to do _anything_!”

Scar looked like he wanted to say more, but they both were pulled out of their screaming by Olivier. His little Livvie, tears running down her face, while her body still shook with barely suppressed rage. Her fingers interlacing with Scar’s, a jolt going through her body. In seconds she pulled Scar with her out of the room.

“We’re leaving!”, words spoken to her friends with a teary voice he’d not heard from her in a long time.

The rumbling coming from the dining room not lasting long, only Buccaneer sticking in his head once more, looking at his mother. The silent question answered with a quick “I’ll be alright.”, before his son took his leave also.

During several minutes of silence Tina looked him up and down.

“Come with me!”

His wife’s voice brooking no contradiction when she took his wrist in a firm grip, stomping ahead. Thoughts whirling through his brain during this, memories of Olivier when she was little. How she’d drawn on walls and giggled with her siblings. She’d loved to sneak into his bureau when he was talking business with his partners, sitting on his knee and scribbling on the notepad on his desk.

Was his Livvie truly the vigilante? For years graffiti appeared all over Central City, each piece incredible in its own right, if one did not account for the vandalism it basically was. He’d once or twice considered buying the sprayed-on building, not wanting the pieces of art to be lost when overpainted or the building demolished. Had oohed and aahed with many others when last fall one of the pieces had been painted over, the image reappearing once the paint was dry.

His little princess had painted these? Climbed buildings at night, showing the world the truth in form of pictures?

Augustine coming to a halt in one of the hallways, in front of a painting he’d bought last year around Christmas time. The indoctrination of priests of Ishvala, walking into their house of prayer while women wept to the right. Ishvala in the middle peaching their message of love and showing how ridiculous the tradition of abstinence was.

Anticipated his wife’s words, yet they still shattered something inside of him.

“This is your daughters! You bought your daughters own painting!”

When had Tina started to cry? In the same silent way of their daughter tears leaking from her eyes, her body shaking.

How had he not seen? For years he’d looked at each of Olivier’s drawings with a fond smile, when had that changed? When his own father had died, leaving him to fill in oversized shoes? When after Olivier Strongine and Amue also said no to following him in his footsteps? When Alex said no too, only little Cathy, who wasn’t even an adult yet, had shown interest? His eldest had been his safest bet, hadn’t she?

His wife wandering further down the hallway, pointing to more and more pictures he’d bought over the years. An auction here, a tip there, sometimes Augustine by his side and sometimes not.

“Hers, hers and hers! You idiot!”

Philip felt his heart turn into a dark pit.

“How were I so blind?!”

He took his wife in his arms, so at least her tears would be quelled for the moment.

* * *

_“You’ll be there, right? And please don’t be mad!”_

Solar heard the words still in their mind, wondering if anybody of them knew what kind of bomb Olivier would drop on them.

How she’d asked Scar over breakfast, her request for him to come to the house of prayer at nightfall an odd one. Scar close to refusing, all of them still drained from the visit to her family yesterday after the ceremony. Solar knew that he’d much rather just have held her for the afternoon, like he’d had the day before, making utterly sure that Olivier knew that her father was not even remotely right in his assumptions.

They’d _all_ been aware that she had something in the works, that something would happen soon. But not one of them, they could see that by the faces of their little chosen family, had thought about that. Not even remotely.

_“Most of you know the rules, made by Ishvala themselves. None shall touch her and with that soil the holiness that Ishvala will be in her. None shall force her to speak, as the words would be those of Ishvala. None shall sully the paints, the brushes, or any other tool used. No dairy shall be given to her and nothing of the sea, lest it make the holy spirit of Ishvala leave her. These are the most important of the old rules, abhorred by all of us, Ishvalan or not.”_

The house of prayer packed, seemingly all Ishvalans living in Central City there. Akeem whispering translations to her hurriedly and with a smile.

It had made the rounds that the house of prayer would soon be painted in the traditional way. A costly matter when one counted material alone, given the size of the walls, the costs for the artist not even accounted for. It was a hardy affair to be the artist too, as far as Solar had heard when at the Seven Sands with Buccaneer.

The person would have to sleep in a different bed each night, so hop families basically. No touching, no talking for what could be _months_. That alone seemed unhealthy to them. No dairy products were allowed to be consumed by the artist, which also included chocolate and things that could only possibly have milk in them. Nothing from the sea also ruling out most kinds of salt sold here, which did not make cooking easier for the families hosting.

A ton of other rules apparently existing too, like being forbidden to wear clothes made from two different materials and not being allowed to be sprayed from water above, which basically forbade showering.

Miles and Akeem were holding hands and whisper-translating for her, Buccaneer staring at his sister open mouthed. Olivier standing next to the smiling head priest, seeming a bit nervous with so many people looking. Hair covered in a pink shawl and gaze settled on one person only: Scar.

The one Ishvalan they’d basically had to push and pull in here, though his promise to Olivier had been all that was needed for him to come in, looking at her through the masses of people. Around him nobody coming too close to him, outside people having skirted him too.

_“As you know, during the hours the house will be painted, and its walls brought to life in glory of Ishvala, you can all come and look. Please do so too, sing to our artist if you can and pray for Ishvala to rest within her during it all. Help us make this an adventure for all of us, a peaceful festivity lasting weeks and inviting all those sceptical of our believe to come and see for themselves with which hospitality we meet our guests.”_

The man’s gestures grand, though Solar saw a bit of nervousness on his face. Today alone a huge number of people was here, the Ishvalan community abuzz with happiness upon this tradition finding traction again. First groups already openly discussing if the Ishvalans should be allowed to practice their believe in such a way though, as they were “in Amestris now”.

Some more words said, Akeem dutifully translating, before the people around them started to move.

Solar had understood that all the rules for Olivier would be effective as of now. It made sense too, the packing the last few days, the cleaning up. Fervently she’d worked on something in her room, a wall she’d painted for Scar in such a way that it resembled his hometown. The picture provided by Akeem. They’d been the only one allowed to see after getting them for dinner, Solar in their pocket still carrying the instructions they were to hand to Scar.

Said man cutting through the people in front of him, walking towards Olivier.

The head priest looked on the fence a little, like he expected Scar to right-away break the rules. But on his face was only a small smile, his voice breathless.

“I’m not mad at you, I never could be! This… this is wonderful!”

And Olivier smiling right back, waving at them when she was pointed towards the family that would take her tonight. Which left them alone, without her, which felt like a hole Solar noted.

“These will be a weird few weeks, or what do you say?”

Miles clapping Buccaneer on the back, the shock of the revelation slowly sinking in.

“You hit the nail on the head Bucc. Though Liv is strong, she probably thought it over very well.”

They filed out of the house of prayer slowly, while Olivier’s phone buzzed in Buccaneer’s pant-pocket, given to him by her with the accompanying words “Don’t flush it!”. That action made more sense now too.

The contact-name “Dad” flashing on the screen with a photo of the man. Smiling, happy, Liv hugging him in the picture.

“That’s what, the twentieth time?”

Akeem’s estimate close.

“Sounds about right,” Buccaneer answering first, looping his arm through theirs, though then making a face, “I gotta phone and tell him, huh?”

Solar pitied him, though was also a bit at a loss too. What to do now, where to go? Them all not being together seemed weird, especially that they weren’t taking Olivier home with them. Akeem and Miles having found their own solution to the weird feeling seemingly.

“Guys, we’ll be going for a walk down the river. Need to let this sink in.”

Akeem looking at his brother after these words, who nodded at his silent question.

“I’ll go home now, I have to work in the morning anyways. And I need time to think.”

The other’s waiting for Buccaneer and them to speak, or rather Buccaneer waiting on them to tell him what they wanted to do now.

“How about we go to our place my bear?”

A nod confirming it all, their ways parted in front of the house of prayer, a crumbled piece of paper pressed into Scar’s hands.

Solar’s thoughts, gloomy and messy, only vanishing when Buccaneer put his arm around their shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me if you liked it and feel free to shoot me any ideas you have <3


	11. Chapter 11

Akeem was nervous.

He'd spoken this morning with his love, with his Miles, who'd told him that today was as good as any a day to get it over with. Akeem feeling that the talk to his brother concerning citizenship hang over his head like a sword, ready to strike at any moment. Had decided for himself that he'd apply, go through the trials and testing, not willing to give up his dream as a legal practitioner of alkahestry.

That he'd not bow down to the military.

Miles had offered to be by his side during their talk, though Akeem had opted out of that. Wanted to face this alone, to make it clear to his brother that this was his own, and only his own, decision. At that, Miles had suggested to talk to Scar at the house of prayer.

Olivier painting still, even though it was dark out already. Watched her while he pulled off his shoes, tiptoeing between the singing people towards his brother. Scar sitting against the same column as he did every day, front row. Singing with fervour. Akeem sat himself down next to him, waiting for the song to end. The crowd colourful again tonight, mostly Ishvalan, though he spotted some of the people from her art classes, as well as some faces he'd never seen. Did not dwell on that though, as Olivier was attracting all kinds of people in the past two weeks with her silent work.

Felt that he was a bit fidgety, a fistful of his jeans in his hands, the texture not enough to distract him from the coiling snakes of fear in his gut. Miles words again echoing through his head _"At the house of prayer he can't yell at you, so do it there."._ Trapping people with social norms had become his love's speciality.

The song coming to an end, the common prayer those watching over her sung before the last song of the day.

 _"Hey Scar, I…,"_ his brother turning, forcing a pause upon him. Scar looked tired and worried. For a long moment Akeem felt bad and wanted to shut up. He didn't though _"I need to talk to you about something."_

His brother was here every day, went to work in the mornings, went to sleep after and then spent almost the rest of the whole day here, singing for Olivier and making sure that she was as alright as can be. Some of the community resenting him for that, others full of admiration. Akeem only amazed by the power love yet again displayed.

_"What is the matter Akeem?"_

Ishvalan the language they always spoke here, their people bilingual anyways. Kept their voices low though, as not to disturb the song around them, nor Olivier. Her short wave in his direction reciprocated by him.

_"Scar, I... you know how my alchemy exam was dismissed twice as scoring well enough, but my citizenship being a problem, right?!"_

A nod from his brother, white fringe falling into his eyes. It was normal to vow something when the ritual of painting a house of prayer began, a way to refrain from something in solidarity with the artist. His brother having vowed to refrain from cutting his hair during the months this could take. A direct nod to rituals concerning priesthood and stating ones believe, though Akeem had the nagging suspicion that he'd once heard Olivier say something about Scar probably looking very good with long hair. Scar having heard that too.

The thought somehow easing his worries a little, a drop of happiness and ease in their daily lives.

_"I do Akeem. Are they now discrediting you further?"_

He shook his head.

_"No, but I've found a possible solution brother, even though I fear you won't like it."_

Akeem received the typical I'm-listening-grunt and continued, fidgeting with the hem of his pullover now.

 _"I'd have to apply for amestrian citizenship."_ His brother opening his mouth to speak, though he hurried to beat him to it. _"But I won't have to give up my ishvalan citizenship for it! I can have a dual one, and..."_

_"We don't have a surname brother. How will you choose?"_

Scar's voice a deep thrum, a hint of danger to his words, an edge felt more than heard. Akeem swallowed around the lump in his throat.

 _"I wanted to reclaim our parents’ names,_ our _names. Those of the Lion."_

His brothers face turning to a grimace, brows drawn together, lips thin in anger. Gaze piercing.

_"That name is lost, we don't exist anymore! Our family is gone, our home is gone, our..."_

Someone around them shushed, Scar growing more quiet again.

_"There is nothing left to reclaim Akeem!"_

Anger making way for sadness in his brother’s form.

Should he say some more, try to change Scar's opinion? Or was it fruitless in truth, his brother not even willing to claim his own first name after all? Yet giving up felt wrong to Akeem, to just let his little brother wallow in anger and sadness. Yes, Scar had lost everything during the war, was wounded and faced with even more prejudice then him once they'd made it to safety. Scar had lost their parents, their home, friends and extended family. _But so had he_.

The words came from his heart.

_"I'll reclaim our name Scar, our past. I don't want it to be forgotten, especially not if I have to sacrifice my future for it. And mom and dad wouldn't have wanted that either."_

Shuffled into an upright position, ready to leave, when another's gaze forced him to sit back down.

Even silent Olivier was a force to be reckoned with.

So Akeem sat there, looking at his little brother. Scar having drawn up his knees a bit, relaxed posture exchanged for tenseness. Face scrunched up, looking less than inviting to talk more. Yet, to Akeem's surprise, his brother talked to him further.

_"I don't want that either Akeem, to forget. But would they be proud of us? Me?! I mean, you have accomplished so much, want to go further..."_

The knot in his stomach loosened.

 _"Scar, Suhail,_ brother. _Mom and Dad would be so proud of you, amazed with how you fought through everything,_ fight _through everything that is thrown at you. Each day you're here, so many resenting you for it, and you still come. You'll find your way, what you want to do, you..."_

_"Do you truly believe that? Mother and Father proud of their children that had to flee their homeland, had to start over and struggle with everything, have to..."_

His brother's words, spoken over his own in a small voice, cut short by a lumped-up piece of fabric thrown at Scar’s face and hitting its mark.

Olivier stood there, with her brushes cutting a word of the ishvalan inscription on the wall in three pieces, the middle a word that made sense even in amestrian.

_Idiots._

Akeem knew that she only understood a bit of Ishvalan, but that she was way too good at reading posture and expression. Had probably understood that they'd been fighting, that Scar was doubting, that they needed to be broken from their squabble and see the bigger picture again. Happy that they seemingly understood, she resumed with packing up her things.

Scar turned the rag in his hands.

_"I'm so proud of you Akeem. You are so brave to pursue your dream, to do everything that is needed to be done. I know you don't need my permission but reclaim our name. Maybe one day I'll be as brave as you are."_

When had he last embraced his brother? Like that, hug holding and a warm feeling spreading through his chest. People all around them getting up, Olivier done for today, the last prayer said. The house almost empty when they let go again.

"Brother's," the head priest spoke to them in amestrian, probably for the sake of Olivier still standing close by, "I do not want to intrude, but I've just gotten a call. Could you two accompany our artist to the house of the elder lady Alva? Her son is stuck in traffic and cannot get Olivier. As you know she shouldn't walk the streets alone. She says you are of course invited to the feast."

There was little hesitation on their part, though Olivier was tugging at her light-green headscarf with a kind of impatience.

"Of course we will!"

Speaking in unison, which made the other man chuckle.

"Well then, you best get going. The adress is known to you I guess?" Question answered with a nod from him. "Then, you know the rules, so take good care of her. And greet Alva from me, will you?"

A few minutes later the door of the house of prayer locked behind them, Scar on his back carrying Olivier's backpack, while Akeem had gotten the mandatory emergency-umbrella and her pillow. Olivier as silent as she had to be, walking several inches apart from them, though seeming content. Scar the one speaking up once more, in amestrian, with that making it clear that he felt like they could talk in front of Olivier openly.

"Will it be hard, these tests?"

Olivier turned around while walking ahead of them, a few steps taken backwards before she turned back around. Continuing this over and over again, until almost running into a lamppost. Something about _curiosity killed the cat_ came to Akeem's mind.

"History, a few laws, nothing too bad when one wants to believe the internet about it."

Akeem truly wasn't worried about it. Amestrian history did he probably know better than most amestrian’s, not to mention that his job was in a museum after all. One tended to pick things up. Law wasn't that difficult either, as he'd gotten them recited often enough. There was only one thing causing him a headache.

"And what about the costs?"

He felt himself shrug, Olivier's gaze upon them again.

"Plenty. But if I save up a bit..."

Let his sentence dwindle out, still unsure how he'd cover the amount needed. Miles had said he'd pitch in, but they hadn't secured more funds yet, nor a way to gain those.

His own worry met with Scar's voice turning firm.

"I'll help you, we'll find a way!"

Olivier gesturing behind him, probably wanting to show that Scar's statement included her. Or that she had to pee very urgently. Maybe both.

Akeem smiled in earnest, for what felt the first time in ages.

* * *

Up until now she was only sick of people bowing out of her way.

Whenever Olivier entered the den of a house, all people cleared from it to let her through. Sure, it was not allowed that she was touched, intentional or by accident and the Ishvalans around her, as well as anybody else, made painstakingly sure of it. So, the sight of twenty people trying to fit anywhere else than the den when she entered a new house every evening got on her nerves.

The old lady Alva though, seemed different.

Scar had rung the bell for her, like she couldn’t do this by herself, but from his smile she’d gathered that he hadn’t meant it in a patronizing kind of way, instead truly only wanting to be nice. First the brothers bowed to the old ishvalan woman opening them the door, bend like a rusty pipe and leaning heavily on her cane.

She spotted a few faces behind the lady, clearly ready to scurry away and make room, when a wrinkled hand was lifted into the air. All movement stilled as elder Alva inclined her head.

“ _Yak jai Ishbala_ , I welcome you into my house.”

She bowed, not breaking eye contact as she’d been taught. Then Olivier moved her left hand to her forehead, then to her chin. A gesture of respect, shown with the hand she painted with.

Elder Alva gesturing to her family yet again, the people forming a guard of honour. The head priest had told her about that, how elders would still be familiar with this tradition. The artists virtue was to be tested by how carefully they walked through the two rows of people and how it was a show of commitment on her part.

Without hesitation walked between the people, not caring for those making protesting noises.

A few steps later stood in the living room, decorated and fitted with many low tables and cushions, as was custom. All a lovely blue colour she noted, the wood dark and the room warm. A feeling coursing through her that was hard to place, feeling like a mix between the typical tiredness she felt each afternoon and a kind of happiness, at not being revered almost mindlessly for once.

The owner of this house stood next to her not a moment later, something like a smile on her face. Eyes a deep red, skin dark and wrinkled, hair a pure white. Elder Alva wore no headscarf in her own home, with a gesture making clear to her that she wouldn’t have to either.

With by now practices movements Olivier pulled the green garment from her head again, not minding it, but also somewhat happy about her hair being able to fall freely.

“ _Yak jai Ishbala_ , may I address you by your sacred name?”

She felt herself nod.

The Ishvalans all called her the _embodiment of Ishvala_ during the time she painted the house of prayer, only allowed to use her first name if she was alright with it. And Olivier would tell them “yes” if she were allowed to. But as she was forbidden to speak, or to write outside of the house of prayer, she could hardly tell them. And waiting for them to ask often seemed to be futile.

“Olivier, would you like to wash yourself before the feast?”

Elder Alva had a mighty voice, though Olivier felt that by body size alone it should have been small. But age apparently hadn’t been able to bend the woman’s will or voice, words said with force, though there was a small smile too.

She nodded yet again.

Olivier had been told all the rules several times, taking them seriously. And in the beginning she’d had plenty of trouble with the cleansing rituals, required to wash her hair and body each day, for at least twenty-seven minutes. It was a holy number she’d been told, but that had not helped with how boring soaking in the tub had been, showering forbidden. Not that she’d have managed to shower twenty-seven minutes either.

Now, after two weeks of painting the house of prayer, constantly watched and guarded, Olivier instead was grateful for the privacy provided.

Was handed a basket by elder Alva, containing towels and the required soaps, all blessed by the head priest at the house of prayer beforehand. In the basked also an hourglass, meant to help her measure the time. And a novel.

Olivier could just so supress the laugh.

“I was the spring-maiden once dear, I know how boring a ritual bath gets.”

A wink in her direction, the lady pointing her to the bathroom and then turning around to her numerous guests.

“The Kaswara brothers, what a sight you two have grown up to be! Handsome young man, but I’ve said as much when you’ve been little, haven’t I?”

Turned around, watched the faces of her two guardians redden and smiled. Took the sight of Scar sheepishly running a hand through his hair with her, closing the dark oaken door and inspecting todays bathroom.

The tiles were a very pale rose colour, tub, washbasin and toilet white. Plenty of plants in the room, spotless clean as all the places she’d visited as of now. A thick, plush carpet in front of the tub, spacious and with clawed feet. Fiddling with the faucets a little, listening to the old pipes groan in effort, as it took her some time to find the right temperature. Only when the tub started to slowly fill up, Olivier took off her clothes.

How did she always manage to get paint everywhere? She was dressed from head to toe in the house of prayer, even her hair was covered by the headscarf and yet she found specks of black and gold on her torso, arms, legs and even in her hair. Sighing Olivier set to brushing out her hair, though not before putting the bath additive into the water. Soon the room started to smell like cinnamon.

Ready to begin the rituals, which really only consisted of washing thoroughly and then soaking in the tub the rest of the time, she readied the towels and put the novel closer to the tub. First sticking a couple of toes in to test the waters, quite literally, before slowly submerging herself.

Without much ado she dove under once and after resurfacing, though still with her eyes closed, Olivier reached for the soap meant to wash her hair with. The first two days she’d struggled a little with it, how to lather up her hair and rinse it out without either overdoing it, or not cleaning it at all. Now though, she knew the ropes.

Thoroughly washing her hair and rinsing it, Olivier tied it into a bun on top of her head. Otherwise she’d never get it dry before her head hit the pillow. Set to wash her body next, by now practised and the whole matter over within mere minutes. Did not manage to be faster than in the shower, but still.

Ready to grab the novel and relax for half an hour more before the feast, and who’d had thought that feasts for two weeks straight could get boring, Olivier heard the door open.

Looked up, ready to see elder Alva checking in on her, something Olivier desperately wanted to ask Scar or Akeem about, though unable to.

Instead, she was faced with Scar.

In person, frozen in his tracks and slowly turning red. Looking at her, trying his utmost to keep his gaze on her eyes. Probably had searched for the toilet and ended up in here.

An idea invaded her mind.

Carefully and slowly, having to resist the urge to speak after all, she lifted herself up a little. To the outsider the motion had to seem like she got ready to grab a towel and throw at him, though that wasn’t her intention. Instead she felt goosebumps rise where her body moved out of the water, Scar’s eyes subsequently drawn to the parts of her body revealed. She could practically feel them land on her boobs, Scar turning a deep crimson now.

When he was looking into her eyes again, his skin was as red as his eyes. She waved with a smile.

In a flash he was gone, door shut softly by him though. Submerging herself in the water again, mouth beneath the water level, Olivier allowed herself to giggle.

Bubbles weren’t words after all.

* * *

“She’s pretty Mister Buccaneer, is she _really_ your sister?”

Miss Thomas, standing a bit to his right, kids talking to her, was biting back a grin at the innocent question. Olivier gave the kid a thumbs-up with her free hand.

“Yes Annabelle, she is.”

“Older or younger than you?”

It basically was like this since he’d started his internship at Central Cities District 4C preschool. A barrage of questions aimed at him, the shyness the little ones first displaying at his frame overcome after the first day easily. Buccaneer wished that their parents would be just as quick to warm up to him.

He leaned down to little Fletcher, adorable with his shock of blonde hair.

“She’s older than me. You have an older brother, right?”

A vigorous nod was the answer, while some of the kids gasped at the ease with which Olivier drew the shape of a jackal onto the wall. Was working patch to patch, telling the history of the Ishvalans in pictures, decided on together with the cleric. Buccaneer knowing though that she had as much artistic freedom as possible, only cornerstones set.

“This is the myth of the jackal who howled at the moon every night!”

For this he’d conducted this trip.

Met with some prejudice when starting his internship, some of his momentary colleagues had looked at him even more weirded out when he’d proposed a field trip to watch the painting of the house of prayer. The classes in this district mixed, children of all heritages learning together.

Little Sakta telling a story of his ancestors proudly to the others.

“…the Jackal really liked the moon and howled to get it’s attention, but the people in the village got mad at it. But the moon shined brighter when the jackal howled, and this made hunting easier and made it so t1hat people could work when it was dark. But those sleeping got angry and chased the jackal away”

Sakta speaking at an astonishing speed, really, Buccaneer for a moment fearing that he’d pass out before he could reach the thrilling conclusion of his story.

“And the moon got really sad that the jackal stopped howling for it and so it rained and rained and rained. Houses swam away, and the fields were full of water, not food! And only one house remained! And the family living there loved Ishvala and prayed three times every day and when the jackal had come to be safe from the water, they’d let it in, because Ishvala loves everybody and everything! And when the moon saw that the world was full of water because of their tears, then…then…”

Wild gestures stopping and Sakta looking shocked now, the story came to a crashing halt.

He was one of the quieter kids, did not speak unless asked to and even then not lots. Which was fine, in all honesty, but according to Miss Thomas it had now gotten to the point that people outside of his family and their institution had been alerted. Though Buccaneer just now saw clearly that the right stimulus was all the boy needed.

The little one still having his hands clasped in front of his mouth, seemingly surprised that he’d spoken so freely.

“But how did it end?!”

Nina’s voice trembling with unbridled excitement.

The head priest had found them, joined them and kneeled to the children’s level. His voice even and warm. Buccaneer understood why his community listened to him.

“And when the moon saw that the world was full of water because of its tears, it suddenly feared for their beloved jackal. Had they drowned them by accident? Driven them from this beautiful spot of the earth with the flood of water? But no. From the one house Ishvala protected, many people came forth. The people that had been living there were good people, had taken all in that needed shelter, human and animal alike.”

Fifteen kids and all were listening with intent, a first as far as Buccaneer had seen. But not only the children clinging to Miss Thomas or him, or onto each other, but the people watching Olivier work, too. Even Olivier looking, pausing in her work to listen to the head priests’ words.

“And the jackal too, was seen by the moon, howling a hello. As loud and bright as on the first day it had howled at the moon. But the moon felt bad for drowning the people’s belongings and the people bad for driving the jackal away. And so Ishvala stepped down and offered them a solution. And as such, the moon only is full once a month, the jackal singing its song for them then. The people had fewer nights with enough light to work late, as such having to give something too. And all were happy with that solution.”

Buccaneer knew the tale in full, very well aware that this was the kid’s version the head priest had told just now. As far as he knew the moon only dared to shine brightly once a month, hiding its face in shame in the original story. People drowned during the flood the moon had induced too, though he got why both things had been omitted just now.

Children took stories about shame and self-worth-issues to heart much more than many other stories and some could be prone to adapt to punish themselves as the moon had in their daily lives, trying to hide. And people drowning and dying simply wasn’t very easy to explain, most of his kids thankfully not having had to deal with death yet.

Though, unknowing about the parts omitted from the story, the children beamed and laughed at the tale. Talked amongst themselves, Buccaneer feeling proud when he spotted Nina, engaging with Sakta and the two talking.

The head priest first talking a little with Miss Thomas, before turning to and greeting him with a wide smile.

“William Buccaneer, what a pleasure to see you here today! I’d seen the name on the form that told of your group coming, but I’d thought it to be a coincidence!”

Cheerful and wide the priests smile was, gestures grand.

It was a month into the painting of the house of prayer, things were going well and what Olivier had put to the walls so far was nothing short of spectacular. The kids had gasped when coming in, as did the grown-ups he saw all day, the many people coming by to watch her work.

“Story of my life then, head priest.” The title the name you said Akeem had taught him, the sacred name of the head priest known to everybody, but not to be used. It belonged to Ishvala now, Scar had told him. “Believe me, when I first set foot into their classroom, the kids were quite unbelieving too.”

Could only smile at that particular initial reaction now, as not an hour later the first children had declared him a big teddy bear.

“Yet, they seem to quite clearly adore you now. What do you think though, Miss Thomas thinks they are still calm enough for another story, but she wanted you to decide on that?”

He nodded.

“They’ll manage another one, I’m sure.”

“Was there one you had in mind?”

“Well, Antia,” he looked at the little girl clinging to Miss Thomas at the moment, white curls on her head and eyes as red as the blazing sun, “ told me that her favourite is the story of the golden rain, and all the other kids are already on the edge of their seats from her tales.”

The group moving over to a piece Olivier had already finished several days ago, the Ishvalan Lions striking form almost popping out of the wall.

“After the story the children can take their midday-meal in the yard with the others, yes?”

His question answered with a smile.

“Of course! The community has already prepared food for the midday-feast and some of them have taken it upon them to offer the gluten-free meals you need for some of your kids. Also, your sister has prepared paints with which they can paint the floors outside, if they want to. Easy to get out of clothes with a washing machine, if I interpreted her gestures right.”

Buccaneer smiling at his sister, who was of course looking at him from the other side of the room, like she could’ve possibly heard that from the distance. He mouthed a thanks, getting a wave in return.

Was glad that everything had worked out with the meals, seemingly all kids in this class allergic to at least one thing. Would not want even one of them to get sick. And after watching Olivier paint after their story, they’d surely love to decorate the square outside with pieces of their own.

The by now familiar weight of Miss Thomas hand landed on his shoulder, while the children sat down in front of the head priest.

She beamed up at him.

* * *

He wished he could ask Liv for help with these damn papers.

She’d know where which information had to go, or she’d be able to find out on the internet. His own searches having somehow led to several porn sides and a tutorial on how to make paper by yourself. Which had been interesting, but not what he’d been searching for.

Yet, he’d probably ruin the surprise by asking her.

Had finally decided, the night after Akeem told him of his plans to gain citizenship, to pursue his dream and not give up. And so Scar had too decided to also do what his heart told him to, to learn more and study, to grow. Central University offered some classes on Ishvalan culture, language and history, and he’d take them all. Would earn a degree and when the time came to rebuild his homeland, he’d be ready.

Nothing of his heritage forgotten, preserved to be taught to future generations.

Scar knew that his found family would support him. Liv had told him so often how much he knew, that he should teach it to others. Akeem always at his back, on board with his decisions. Buccaneer and Miles, Solaris too, would help him, Scar felt it. And he’d make his parents proud.

Felt good with this decision, at peace.

If only the questions asked on the form weren’t so harebrained, if the font would be a size bigger, too. And by Ishvala, he needed to work on his handwriting, one could barely read anything! Sighed, almost defeated, though still feeling too stubborn to ask for help. What chance did he have if he couldn’t even fill out the papers on his own?

His gaze wandering where it always did, the expanse of his hometown before him.

The glazed bricks of the well shining in the sun, the cool the water gave to the air surrounding it almost brushing over his skin. Could remember how the hot wind had felt on his skin, how the suns heat had pricked and prodded at him, coaxing out sweat and laughter. He could almost feel the sand by looking at it, hear the voices.

Scar had cried first, when he’d laid eyes on Olivier’s gift.

Now he could only smile, breath deeply and miss her a lot. Her bed was empty for five weeks by now, pillow and blanket airing out, her favourite double sheets already put to the side for when she finished her work. Scar having a nagging suspicion that she’d sleep a lot directly after it. The room around him tidy, safe for his papers strewn across the floor, not smelling much of paints anymore, or turpentine.

Picked up the sheet nearest to him, reading it.

_Place of birth?_

He knew that.

* * *

Miles felt the overwhelming need to whisper, just so he wouldn’t disturb one second of this.

“How in the hell have you managed this Scar?!”

“Tweeter.”

The answer coming from the other simple and easily, even though there existed no service called that. Miles had to give Scar some credit though: It was closer than usually.

Olivier’s work at the house of prayer at first only drew Ishvalans and the art-crowd. But through social media quite a buzz worked itself up. Several videos of the Ishvalans attending her work singing to her went viral, soon people asking why they were singing at all. More and more visitors coming each day. Her work made headline news, people wanted to interview her, bullshit in and on itself, interest build up.

Scar leaned closer to him, whispering some more.

“They wrote something about how great it was that this tradition was continued, and I answered that they were her favourite band. It went from there.”

Miles a bit shocked at Scar elaborating unprompted on his answer. Tried to take it in stride though, the usual extremely loud rock band singing Olivier’s all-time favourites to her, unplugged. The house of prayer packed, though thankfully not to the brim, as this little surprise gig hadn’t been advertised.

Olivier working still, though bobbing to the music a little, smiling whenever he saw her face. She’d been as shocked as most anybody else when they’d stepped into the house of prayer, led in by the head priest. Instruments strapped to their backs, in no time greeting her and settling down. For a few minutes she’d just stared at them, like she couldn’t believe her own eyes.

Devoid of a smartphone Olivier only heard about the media-buzz what others told her, could not even ask about it. Miles wondering for the thousand time how she held out without knowing about the newest memes. She could ask no question, request no things, except for when she somehow managed to get her point across by playing the worlds weirdest game of charade.

Looked tired as of late, knew that not being allowed to speak, not being allowed to touch or be touched was taking its toll on her. From several of her hosts they’d by now heard that she slept badly, dreamed or lay awake. She ate less too, always a bad sign. Dark circles appearing under her eyes slowly but surely, hands looking worn out. Little bumps on them, skin trying to protect itself against the fiddly brushes.

And her eyes were almost constantly red by now, the thing Miles noticed the most. The things she drew tiny in parts, lines so fine you could barely see them. And as she worked more than eight hours each day usually, her eyes simply had to be tired.

Slowly Miles understood the stories told about those that had painted a house of prayer, that many had tried to quit, had almost gone insane.

“I think a break is due now, food is as always free for all in the square. Our honoured guests, you are of course invited!”

People filing outside, moving and walking about, Olivier wiping her hands on one of her few remaining sacred rugs and then coming over to them. Wore loose cotton pants that some of the ishvalan kids had died for her in a slew of colours, somehow mixing well with the white shirt she’d chosen for today, also cotton. Not that it was white anymore, sprinkled with paint and basically looking like a rainbow had exploded on it. Miles for a moment musing about the rule for clothing and not being allowed to mix two different threads. It had been more difficult than any of them would’ve anticipated.

Olivier walking out with them though, pulling off her headscarf and shaking out her hair. Offered a bowl of food by an Ishvalan woman, one of the flocks that always seemed to be there for her. Got comfy on some cushions, a metre to each side of her, pulling up her feet.

Miles wondered how it felt when you haven’t been touched, or hugged, in weeks.

“Miles?”

Scar nudged him, looking at Olivier who was digging into her bowl, still smiling each time the members of the band waved at her.

He looked at the others face, lips pressed tightly together and eyes on Olivier. Scar _worried_ , a perpetual state of his.

“Yes?”

“You once said that you know Naeem of East City. Was that true?”

Only when he felt like laughing did it occur to Miles that Scar had asked more weirdly-worded questions before.

“Sure do, or rather: My mother. Friend of Grandpa’s or something like that. Why?”

The other looking at him finally, though still full of worry, nerves showing just the slightest bit.

Scar was here every day for Olivier, watched her paint, his schedule making it easier on him, but also his sheer determination. Even Bucc and he had missed some days, Solar and Akeem too, their work keeping them away at certain hours. And while no-one, especially not Olivier, grudged them that, they simply didn’t notice as much as Scar did. Especially since most people that hosted her were now turning to him, concerning questions or worries.

“Liv’s unwell. That it all gets to you is normal, she’s even doing much better than most. But I want to make things easier for her.”

Miles paused for a moment, watching as Olivier declined a second bowl of food from one of the women, instead drawing her legs up to her body and hugging them.

“That didn’t answer my question Scar.”

Scar sighed a little.

“I spoke with the clergy. After some in-fighting they allowed for a temple-dog to be brought here, if I can find a proper one that is. It would be ok for her to touch it and hug it and I’m sure …”

Scar’s bare arm was warm where Miles touched it.

“That’s a wonderful idea brother! I believe that this would really help her and of course I’ll call my mother and ask her as soon as possible. But in all honesty, have people been that much against it? I always though that the rules allowed for the temple dogs to be exempt of all other rules?”

The open face next to him closed up again, though not completely. Scar’s voice though, turned a tad angry.

“I am quite sure that some made it so difficult because _I_ brought up the idea. Some have not forgiven me, that I decided to choose my path anew.”

His answer to that simple, making the other smile. A pleasant sight and a rare one too.

“Fools!”

* * *

She shivered in the darkness around her.

Heard people running by, screams and bangs and sirens. Dogs barking and children crying. Wondered how, her ears still ringing from the initial blast. Tried to get her shaking body under control, swiped at the tears running from her eyes, though was unable to stop them.

It had been a good day today, she’d slept well the night, the family had not fought while she’d been there, nobody had bothered her when she’d been in the bath for an hour. Scar had brought her such a wonderful surprise yesterday, had given her so much strength with it. Yes, she’d noticed a certain tenseness in the usual attendees today, but nobody had said anything.

She got no news, little updates, nobody wanting to disturb her in her work. As such, by midday everybody had seemed calm again. They’d eaten together, Buccaneer had come by in the afternoon, bringing her some chocolate her mom had gotten for her. Free from all the things she wasn’t allowed to eat. It had been stowed in her bag, a treat for later.

And when she’d went outside, Scar on one side of her and the oldest son of the family she was supposed to stay with today on her other, she’d noted this tension in the air again. More amestrian’s than Ishvalan’s for the first time in weeks around her, chanting and screaming. She’d understood little, tired as she was.

But when a light flashed, when something banged, she’d understood well enough.

Scar had been her pillar, had in harsh and short words of his mouther tongue made appear a gap in the crowd for her, saying only few words to her directly.

_“Run! Hide! I’ll find you!”_

She’d heeded his words.

Olivier knew that she wasn’t one for running away. She’d rather have stayed there, helped where she could, argued with whomever was turning these peaceful weeks on their head. Yet, she couldn’t. Was not allowed to speak, nor to deck someone in the face. It would unravel all they’d worked on in the house of prayer, would make it all for naught. She couldn’t do that out of her own selfish desire.

As such, she’d headed Scar’s words, knowing that they would be true.

With fear in her heart had run through the streets, ducking away and turning corners, with every metre more removed from whatever was happening a lump rising up her throat. What was happening, was someone hurt?

When another corner had been turned, nobody near her as far as she could see, she’d done what she always did when forced to hide. The lid of the trash container shut, empty as it was.

With hammering heart lay there and waited.

Had no idea for how long, tears subsiding once and starting anew, silence sweeping over the city again, sirens silenced. Got cold, shivered for more than one reason, though she did not dare leave. It was too high anyway, she’d always been too small to get out of the trash containers without help. Waited.

And when steps rushed past her, she feared again suddenly.

What if Scar had been hurt? Or Miles or Akeem? The kids that had been there during the midday-meal, where had they gone after? The head priest had been at her back when she went outside with the men, would’ve locked up behind him. Was he alright? And who was nearing her hiding spot, was she still in danger, had brought everybody else in danger?

Scar’s face a relief.

He said a prayer in Ishvalan, light of his mobile shining down on her.

“I’ll get something to help you out of there.”

Was gone from her sight, though let the lid stand open.

For several moments Olivier could only concentrate on the sounds around the container, how Scar produced a wooden crate, small and empty, handing it over to her with care. Put another one in front of the container, while she positioned the other, so she could climb out. Was on the street next to him soon enough, his flashlight passing over her, checking for injury she guessed.

Scar as always understood her gesture.

“Protesters, a pro-Amestris movement the police said. The usual screaming and chanting, pure nonsense. They were agitated by the good press surrounding the house of prayer.”

Olivier shivered, for the utmost time wished that Scar could just hold her, to lose this feeling of being disconnected from everything around you. He noted it though, a pained look crossing his face. While grabbing the hem of his red hoodie, he talked on.

“Nobody was hurt, except for the protesters that did not comply with the police’ orders. But they threw fireworks around, the banging setting off a panic. The MP that was head of the operation was sensible to our issues though. Promised that we’ll be protected from now on. I only spoke to his adjutant, a Hawkeye, you know her? She knew your name.”

While faced with Scar in only a tank now, arms muscular under the streetlights and goosebumps rising along his skin with high speed in the chill of spring afternoons, she shivered once again. Nodded at his question.

Hawkeye was Mustangs adjutant. Something more, if here feelings weren’t completely wrong.

“Think we can trust that then? Or is it just a ruse to snoop us out?”

Shook her head no, knowing that Mustang would be true to his words. A grunt from Scar coming then, hoodie held out to her.

“You’re cold.”

Said it matter-of-factly, did not budge when she shook her head, silently trying to tell him to put the hoodie back on. Yielded after several minutes, careful not to touch him when taking the garment, pulling it over her head.

Warmth engulfing her immediately, his smell too.

“Come, we need to get back to the others, they need to know you’re safe.”

Wandered next to him through the dark streets of Central City, the initial shock about everything slowly subsiding.

She’d not run from some nationalist assholes, would continue to fight. Wasn’t she doing this for years now, anonymously? Wouldn’t it be wrong now to change course, just because some assholes now knew her name? No, she wouldn’t give in, she’d fight, she’d…

Scar came to a halt, only two corners before they’d reach the house of prayer.

“Liv, I know today was horrible for you. That these past few weeks were hard and tiring and are taking a lot out of you, but,” Scar pausing for a moment before speaking, shivering in the cold air and eyes locking onto hers, “…Don’t give up, okay? We’ll watch over you, over everyone, we…”

He shut up as she waved at him. Balled one of her hands to a fist, letting it smack into the palm of her other hand. Scar smiling at that.

“How could I even for a moment doubt you?”

His smile was beautiful, however bad the lighting was.

* * *

After ten minutes of reminding him to hurry, Philip had told his advisor to wait outside for him.

A bit of huffing and puffing on the young man’s part, though he complied, not daring to cross him. Oh how he wished for Grand to still be by his side, a tall and loud man, but so much more respectful. It was no wonder that the military had wanted him back. He’d have admired these masterpieces more, too.

His study of a lion devouring a gazelle stopped, when another panel caught his eye.

A golden Sirrusch dragon, a legendary beast of Ishvalan and Xingese stories, flying over a village. Gold raining down, the people trying to catch it with arms stretched to the sky. And while all eyes were on the sky and the dragon above, the corruption came up from cracking ground. A beautiful depiction of the Altaai-Amaar Legend.

Possibly the most beautiful he’d ever seen.

The colours seemed to be jumping out at you, the tiny faces of the people incredibly detailed, though not bigger than his pinkie fingers tip. The blues of the sky melted into one another, seemed to be one and a thousand different shades at once. The metallic shimmer of scales and coins, of the sun’s rays, flittering in the light coming in through the high-up windows.

To believe that this was his daughters work wasn’t hard anymore, though the knowledge at the same time had his heart in a painful grip.

Philip wanted to blame his not coming here on impatient advisors and a thousand things to do. There had been a lot going on, his firm being extended, while two other parts he’d sold. Contacts from Drachma and Xing demanded planning sessions with him. And frankly, as his wife had so easily seen, he was scared.

Scared to face his little girl, knowing how much he’d hurt her.

The buzz in the city upon her taking on this job of course reaching him, family and friends asking about it. Most he’d handed over to Tina, at least when it was possible. Yet, he’d not dared to come here himself, however often his beloved had asked him to accompany her. How could he? Had just a day before starting here belittled Olivier, talked of her art being trash and nothing but.

Yes, he’d called her, but he’d also known that she most likely wouldn’t pick up. He wasn’t the type to either, needed time to force his anger and irritation down, to think with a cool head again. For the first time in years noted how alike they were, her and him. And when two days after it all Buccaneer had called him in the afternoon, talking about the house of prayer and Livvie-kins not being allowed to speak during it all, Philip had thought that she’d now really was giving it her all when it came to not wanting to talk to him.

Twenty minutes and four of his image-advisors sending him messages later, he’d known better.

Read and cut out every article about it he could find, printed those found online out too. Looked at the pictures Tina showed him, marvelled at the stories of his other children, how Olivier worked diligently, with devotion. How the people sang for her, cooked for her, cared for her. Amue had asked just yesterday, after the latest big news hit, when _he’d_ finally start to.

Some awful pro-Amestris protestors, a nationalist group having existed as long as Philip could remember, had tried to declare the painting of the house of prayer as un-amestrian. The courts of course not giving their racist concerns room, aimed to forbid further work on the house of prayer. In their anger though, these people had attacked.

Surrounded the building their current hate concentrated on, chanting and throwing strong fireworks, one man even shooting a flare-gun. The military police, before extremely lax when it came to proposed safety measures for the house of prayer, moved in quickly and separated the two groups. Nobody had been hurt physically, though emergency pastoral care had been organized for the Ishvalans. And to top it all off, his little girls’ whereabouts had not been known for a full hour after the attacks.

She’d been found and kept safe of course, though the news omitted that it had been Scar telling her to hide, that the protesters had specifically been out to get her and void her work by touching her. Could barely think what was meant with that, did not want to imagine. Had thanked his contact, not needing to hear further words.

On their way to a planning-session with a business partner, Philip had told his driver to stop here and let him out. Fearing her reaction or not, he needed to make sure that his little girl was alright.

Not that she was anywhere he could see.

The house of prayer mostly empty, except for two young men in robes going around and cleaning up a little. Several cushions stacked against a pillar in the room, the only thing standing untouched a small waggon, akin to a serving waggon made of wood, full of painting supplies. He’d read that the things she needed had been blessed and were not to be touched, except for when she decided so.

A section of the wall apparently completed today already, paints still drying and sketchy outlines to be seen on the next part. Tried to discern what it would be, suddenly felt giddy at getting to watch his daughter work. Just when he leaned in further, a door not too far away from him was opened, the voices of several people loud suddenly.

From there people pouring in, the smell of foot coming with them. There had to be a yard outside, a midday meal served to all that were here. Plenty of people spilling into the room and grabbing cushions, talking and laughing amongst themselves.

Philip spotted Scar, standing in the doorway and seemingly waiting for people to clear the way. Wore lofty pants, a white shirt and his sash wound around his hips. Was barefooted, as many seemed to be. Philip suddenly wondering if he should’ve left his socks at the entrance too, not only his shoes?

All thoughts gone for a moment, when he finally spotted his daughter.

Barefoot too, in a red dress and with a shawl on her head. Looking thin, gaunt almost and tired. Was shocked at the dark circles under her eyes, the pallid tone of her skin. Yet, she had a small smile on her face, Scar having seemingly told a joke that had made the people around them laugh. The tall Ishvalan walking next to her, keeping an eye out, trying to look relaxed and only seeming on edge to Philip.

Stopped a millisecond before Olivier did, spotting him.

His daughters face hardening, smile vanishing quickly, and eyes narrowed. Walking past him, picking up her tools, while the Ishvalans around them whispered with each other, some people crowding around Scar, talking and looking at him from across the room.

“Olivier?”

She’d heard, he knew, her brush halting for a short moment, before dipped into white paint.

“Olivier, I know that I should’ve come earlier, talked to you, that I’ve said some stupid and insensitive things. That there is no excuse for that.”

Passive-aggressively she was colouring what seemed to look like an ox-to-be. Was not turning around, ignoring him, though he felt the typical anger radiating from her. It struck him that they had an audience consisting of a packed house of prayer.

Hundreds of eyes on him, he spoke on.

“I didn’t know what I was thinking about when I talked about your art, I’m not sure why I never saw how you’ve grown, how much your talent developed to mastery. Maybe it was the pitfall of being your father, or seeing the things you did as adorable, but passing fancies. I mean, you stopped wanting to be a professional horseback rider too. Stopped with the ballet lessons at some point.”

Tried to ease the air, chuckled, though Olivier still painted, pretending not to listen. For a second he cursed the shawl she wore on her head, as it did not let him see her ears, the one thing that could ruin her otherwise perfect pokerface.

Not that he could see that now, either.

“Your mother showed me pictures and told me so many things when you left the house that day. How I never noticed is beyond me now Livvie-kins, it’s a marvel. Now I walk through so many places, walk the streets and just _know_ what is and isn’t from you. You’re so amazing, so great, if I would’ve known… Why didn’t you ever say anything?!”

She’d started to shake during his words, with what he could not discern. Now though, she shot him a look over her shoulder, everything clear.

His daughter was basically seething with rage.

“Olivier, if I had known what a great artist you were, I’d never pushed you to take on the family business. I’ve only ever wanted you to, because you were the strongest of your siblings, the one that could take everything that came with the position. When Alex refused…”

A rag flew his way. Olivier had stopped painting, had let her brush fall and white paint spill on the floor. The form of the ox marred, stretching out to a blob after its hind legs. The crowd around him was murmuring, the words _“how many wrong things can one man say?!”_ reaching his ears.

Had he said the wrong thing?

“Liv, please, I know you cannot answer. But I thought that you’d be happy now that I understand? That our ugly fight would be over, that we could act normal around each other again? If this is about Scar, then don’t worry either! He saved you, is there for you as far as your brother told me, I approve of him!”

It struck him when she turned away, that whatever wrong thing he’d said now, apparently fuelled her refusal to even look at him.

“Olivier, I…”

When he outstretched his hands to touch her shoulder, to turn her to face him, a pair of strong hands held him back. His first impulse to fight back vanishing, when he remembered the rules of her work here. With one touch, he’d almost forced her to get rid of all of these masterpieces.

Before him stood a bald-shaven man, skin dark and look solemn.

“Mr. Armstrong, I must ask you now to leave.”

None other than Scar the one having held him back from touching his daughter in a careless burst of emotion. Freed himself from the young man’s grip though, after a last look at Olivier’s shaking back turning around and slowly walking towards the exit. Scar, as well as what he presumed to be a priest of some kind, right behind him.

Out of the corner of his eye Philip saw some of the Ishvalan women flock around his daughter, talking in soothing voices. Heard only snippets, “tea” and “sweets” and didn’t even want to imagine how upset Olivier must be.

“You are aware that after coming this close to breaching the rules during this tradition, that we can not allow you to visit your daughter again?”

The older man’s voice was level, though laced with a finality.

“I…yes, I understand. I forgot myself, you have to understand, I…”

“Good. Please refrain from trying to talk to her when she leaves the house of prayer either. The work is taxing enough as it is. If you _afterwards_ feel that you want counsel though, help, then the house of prayer is of course open to you.”

With which the priest bowed, stepping back inside after a nod to what Philip thought to be priest of a lower rank at the door.

Scar still standing before him, seemingly waiting for him to leave, face a stern mask.

“How did I go wrong this time?”

He’d not meant to ask the other anything, face a scowl and scars almost turning it to a grimace. Yet, the words tumbled out on their own.

Scar’s voice almost sounding like a sneer, though there was an honesty to it, an air of knowing what he talked about around him.

“Try to love her _because_ of who she is, not _despite_ of it. That would be a start.”

Scar stepping back inside again, no doubt to soothe his daughters’ pain.

Philip noticed that he hadn’t even thanked Scar for probably saving Olivier’s life.

* * *

None of the families had a second thought anymore when she excused herself to go to bed early.

Had seen herself in the mirror, the circles underneath her eyes deep, the bruises littering her arms and hands. She was getting jittery, bumped into things in her exhaustion. Just yesterday she’d cut herself on one of her palette knifes, had to bandage the wound by herself and while doing so had longed to be touched. Her eyes hurt whenever she had them open.

None of the food offered to her tasted as well as it had before, everything seemed to be bland and not very filling. Had noticed of course that her pants were now a size too big, skin dry and cracking in places, however much she tried to put a stop to that with different lotions.

Olivier remembered when she’d sat together with the head priest, how he’d told her about the artists that had tried to break the rules in the sheer pain the work started to evoke. That some had sought out extremes, had been besides themselves. She’d thought she’d understood the risks and yet had only underestimated them.

Was fluffing up the blanket of yet another bed, no mattress like the one the day before, her back screaming out since week two that this wasn’t a good thing at all. Threw her pillow on the bed, the one thing she was allowed to bring herself that did not need to be exchanged each night. After the third day her guest-families stopped looking weirdly at the hoodie it was stuffed in.

Sitting down on the bed, she was joined by one of the two beings keeping her sane through it all.

The little hairless dog, called Natma by the Ishvalans, was allowed to touch her. A temple dog, holy in his own right and allowed by the strict rules. There was no hair on the little guys body, the skin pinkish in places and brown in others. Did not shiver, yet fond of snuggling up to her. Two days after her most recent falling out with her father Solaris had brought someone to the house of prayer, apparently having picked the man up for Scar, who had an appointment to attend to that afternoon.

Natma let loose in the house of prayer by the Ishvalan newcomer, called Naeem she soon learned.

She’d stumbled back when it came running to her, trying not to be touched and aided in that quest by several people. Yet, after five minutes of a wild goose chase through the house of prayer, the head priest had with laughter in his voice explained that yes, she could touch the dog. Cuddle and hug it to her hearts content. Locked in a stand-off with Natma, her in a corner and the not even knee-height guy standing in front of her with a wagging tail, she sank to her knees.

Maybe she’d cried in front of all these people, though really, after crying after the fight with her father, or when they sang songs to her with wonderful voices, she really didn’t care about that anymore.

For what was probably several hours, she did not continue her work.

Natma patient with her, fond of giving doggy kisses and barking when people came too close to her. A smart guy too, especially when Scar came after nightfall, set to bring her to the day’s family. She’d kissed Natma on his bald head, the little guy then shooting off and kissing Scar after she pointed towards him with a smile.

Her love receiving the dog’s kisses with patience, then sending one back to her.

Naeem telling her that she could take the dog with her for the duration of her work, so she wouldn’t be alone, would be able to complete everything. And while she was still tired and itchy, wanted everything to just end after almost two months of hard work, she was also proud at what she achieved. Lay down, breathing in the smell of the hoodie, Natma snuggling close and keeping an eye on the door.

One more week of work, then she would be done. Supplies enough, not much left to complete. She’d be free to do what she wanted again, to sleep and eat and touch whenever.

Several times she’d been asked what she’d do first when finished. Eat, sleep, laugh or speak to someone maybe? Each time she’d shaken her head no. Had started to work again, or ate in silence, trying to ignore the itching of her skin. The question had an easy answer after all, though one she of course couldn’t say aloud.

She only wanted _one_ thing.

* * *

People that had remained to skirt him and his brother clapped him on the back, said prayers in his name while he passed, bowed their heads.

It was an honour to be called in by the artist that had channelled Ishvala during the painting of the house of prayer. The person regarded sacred after the last few hours spent alone, painting only with Ishvala by their side as it was said. The first to come to them said to be blessed with the power and prayer accumulated.

Scar unsure when on of his former neighbours, a father of four that had refused to look his brother in the eye because of Akeem being gay, had berated him for denying the honour of becoming a priest, bowed down to him.

Had Olivier chosen him on purpose maybe, to end the torture that the hate from his own people, parts of his own community, had been? Used the standing received through her skill of art and will to pull through to free him and his brother of scrutinizing looks? Or did she just want to validate his choices, give him the chance to be the first to see the new beauty of his house of prayer in full, having refused priesthood or not?

All these questions vanishing when he saw her, standing in the middle of the room.

Her hands shaking slightly, the callouses and bruises to be seen from where he stood. The crowd outside loud at his back, the festivities already in full swing. Olivier turning to him when the door fell shut behind him, drowning out most of the noises. Her face as pale as it had been the last few weeks, the rings under her eyes deep and dark. She’d thinned, was on her last legs, the sound of the sob escaping her making his heart clench.

In a few large steps he was by her side, wound his arms around her and held her tight.

Olivier’s hands fisting into his pullover, nose buried against his chest, Scar felt her legs give out. Sank to the floor with her, let her lean against him, the sobs wrecking her body. Could only hold her, kissing the top of her still headscarf-covered head.

His own voice breaking when he spoke, her warmth in his arms again, the sound of her sobs, making something give.

“Shhh, it’s going to be alright. We’ll get you something nice to eat and _so_ many people are waiting to hug you.”

Scar would’ve said something more, assured her that everything would be alright again soon, but her eyes locking on his silenced each and every thought. Her eyes wide, seeming even much more so by the circle’s underneath, still watery. Olivier’s voice croaky from being unused, wrecked by her sobs.

“I’m so _tired_!”

All ideas of her choice having been deliberate in the way he’d thought gone completely, only resolve and love filling him. She’d not called upon him out of an ulterior motive, nor because she felt like paying a debt that wasn’t hers. He’d been her choice, simply because she needed him.

“Then rest, I’ll watch over you.”

Only when the head priest came to collect them half an hour later, Scar noticed that he’d not once looked unto the perfection her art was.

Instead eyes firmly set on her sleeping form in his arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, this story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), whose goal is to improve communication between readers and authors. The goal of it is to make commenting easier for readers and to increase the feedback writers get. As such, I invite you to leave:
> 
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>  _Reader-reader interaction_   
>  _extra-kudos as <3_
> 
> I cherish all comments, weather they be long or short, even only one word makes me squeal with happiness after all. And if you’re seeing this fic ten years after I published it, don’t worry: Old or new, I’ll still love what you left me to read <3 I answer to all comment btw, though it sometimes takes me a day or two. Should you not want me to answer, just write _whisper_ in front of it.  
>  I thank you for reading this fic of mine through to the end. As I said, I appreciate all comments and kudos and should you want to get into direct contact with me [this is my tumblr](http://illidria.tumblr.com/). There you can get into discussions with me, or even send in wish-fics.  
> Happy reading and thank you <3


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